The Chocolate Snowman Murders Page 7

  The minute the front door swung open, I was ambushed by Johnny Owens.

  He grabbed my shoulders with both hands. “Lee! I feel terrible! It never occurred to me that you would go to pick Mendenhall up! I’m so sorry I let you get into this mess!”

  “You let me? Johnny, you had nothing to do with it.”

  Johnny let go of my shoulders and ran his hands through his buzz cut. “If I’d had any idea in the world that Joe would have to ask you to make the airport run . . .”

  I was beginning to see what Johnny was talking about. “Then you knew that Mendenhall had a problem with inappropriate behavior toward women?”

  “Not firsthand! I mean, I never witnessed him doing anything wrong. It’s just that—well, there was always a lot of gossip about him.”

  “Do you mean when you were in college?” I said.

  “Yeah. I’ve been out of school fifteen years. But if one of the women on the committee had volunteered to pick him up, believe me, I would have said something. When Joe said he’d do it, I thought it was the ideal situation.”

  “I don’t see how you can blame yourself, Johnny. The whole thing would probably have been okay if Mendenhall hadn’t been drinking.”

  “Drinking? I didn’t know he’d become a drinker.” Johnny grimaced. “His reputation for coming on to women—including students—was bad. But I’d never heard he drank.”

  “A lot can change in fifteen years. Anyway, I dropped him at the motel as soon as I realized that he was pretty polluted. I don’t know what happened to him later. His death is a complete mystery to me.”

  Joe walked in at that point, and Johnny went into a new spasm of self-reproach and apology. Joe was gracious, but his voice had a brusque edge.

  “I don’t see how you could have anticipated my passing off the pickup chore to Lee,” he said. “And we’re certainly not holding you responsible for Mendenhall’s bad behavior. But I would have appreciated a hint.”

  “That’s what I’m kicking myself about,” Johnny said. “But it’s awful hard to hint when all you have to go on is gossip.”

  “I have one big question,” I said. “What makes a guy like that think he’s attractive to women?”

  “I guess he remembers his glory days.”

  “Glory days!” I’m sure I sounded as astonished as I felt. “Are you saying Mendenhall once was attractive to women?”

  “That was the story.”

  “It wasn’t because of his appearance. A short, fat, bald guy has a lot to overcome.”

  “Mendenhall got fat? And he lost his hair?”

  “I didn’t see a photo ID, but the fellow I met at the airport was fat and bald.”

  “He used to be fairly good-looking, certainly not fat. And he had a great head of hair. The gossip was that he was very attractive to women.”

  “Women like Mrs. Trustee?”

  “Not just her. There was one story . . .” Johnny’s voice trailed off, and I realized he was blushing.

  “It was just a story,” he said weakly.

  His reaction was almost amusing. I leaned close and lowered my voice. “Orgies?”

  Johnny’s cheeks became slightly redder. “I’m not sure how you define an orgy,” he said. “How many people does it take?”

  “I suppose it depends on what they’re doing,” Joe said. “Come on, Lee. Ramona’s beckoning us into the meeting. You’ll have to wait for the salacious details.”

  The three of us went into the WinterFest office to find Ramona and George Jenkins already there. George rushed to meet us.

  “Oh, Lee, Joe! You two have had a terrible time! I’m so sorry!”

  “It wasn’t your fault, George,” I said. “What have you done about a juror?”

  “That worked out. I went to Dr. Harrison. And in the emergency, he agreed to serve.”

  “Who is Dr. Harrison?”

  “I thought everyone knew him! He’s one of our most famous residents.”

  “Sorry, George. I know nothing about art.”

  “Dr. Thomas Harrison was head of the art department at the University of Michigan. He retired here in Warner Pier. His wife is in poor health, and they live a very quiet life. He doesn’t take part in community activities. But in the current emergency, he agreed to step in.” George cleared his throat. “Of course, a juror really ought to be from outside the local area, someone who wouldn’t know any of the hometown artists. But since Dr. Harrison isn’t active in Warner Pier art circles, and since he’s so well-known and respected, and since it’s a real emergency—I don’t think anyone will complain.”

  I sighed. “That’s a relief. It sounds as if you handled the situation very well.”

  Ramona spoke briskly. “We’ll have to discuss paying Dr. Harrison a fee, Lee. That’s part of the business we need to handle now.”

  George nodded. “And everyone will want to know about what happened. We heard the most awful rumors. One was that you two were questioned by the Grand Rapids police.”

  “It was the Lake Knapp police,” Joe said. “And I know everyone’s going to want to hear all about it. Let’s wait until the crowd is here.”

  So we all sat down and looked at one another. When we all had only one subject on our minds, and we’d agreed not to talk about it—well, it sure killed other conversation.

  Then I gasped. Mozelle had walked in.

  Ramona greeted her with apparent pleasure. “You’re here!”

  “Luckily, I was able to conclude my business and come back for the WinterFest opening,” Mozelle said. “I should be here for all the events.”

  We all assured her we were delighted that her plans had changed. I told myself I wasn’t being hypocritical; I might not like Mozelle, but she was doing a good job for the WinterFest.

  The rest of the committee trickled in. Each wore a personal version of dress-up clothes. Sarajane Harding had on a neat navy blue pantsuit, rather tailored, but obviously not expensive, and had brought her dimples and straight gray hair. George had replaced his usual tweed jacket with a burgundy blazer, but he still wore a turtleneck. Mary Samson was in something short and floaty that made me wonder if she’d bought it for her high school prom. Then I wondered if our shy Mary had even gone to the high school prom.

  Ramona had something black, bulky, and anklelength, with a multi-multi-multicolored velvet scarf draped around her neck. Johnny Owens wore jeans and a flannel shirt, his usual garb, but I could tell it was dress-up because he wasn’t smeared with clay or paint. Maggie McNutt, who knew exactly what was becoming for her tiny frame, was stylish in red taffeta.

  Mozelle was dressed in basic black, which had probably cost more than the total of all the other garments in the room. It wasn’t exciting, but it sure was cut well.

  A few minutes later Amos Hart arrived. He wore his usual bow tie, but this one was black and almost made him look as if he were in a tuxedo.

  Most of these people tried to talk to Joe and me, but Ramona sternly motioned everyone into chairs around the meeting table. “So, can we now have an official report on what in the world happened to Mendenhall?”

  I deferred to Joe, as the one of us who would know how to avoid saying more than we should, and he outlined the events of the previous evening and the current day.

  He ended by saying, “I think all of you can expect to hear from the Lake Knapp police. They’ll want to know if Mendenhall tried to contact any of you.”

  “He didn’t call me,” Maggie McNutt said. “I didn’t have anything to do with the art show. And how would he have known that I even existed?”

  George broke in to explain that he’d e-mailed Mendenhall a packet of information on the Winter Festival, and in it had been a list of the organizing committee members.

  Maggie frowned. “Actually, I wasn’t available last night, since I was at rehearsal. I had my cell phone turned off, and both Ken and I were at the auditorium from six o’clock on. I’ll check my answering machine, but I didn’t notice it flashing.”

 
“George and I were at his gallery during the early part of the evening,” Ramona said with a slight smile. “We were handling a last-minute crisis with the art show, and I had my phone turned off, too. Later I was home, but Mendenhall didn’t call. Bob didn’t mention getting any calls earlier.”

  “Anyone who got a call from Mendenhall would probably be wise to call the Lake Knapp police and ask for Sergeant McCullough,” Joe said.

  “Oh, dear.” Mary Samson’s voice was almost a whimper. “Would we have to?”

  “It would be a good idea, Mary. Did Mendenhall call you?”

  Mary wrung her hands. “Someone did. Someone who sounded drunk. I thought it was a crank call.”

  “That may have been Mendenhall,” I said. “He was certainly drunk when I left him.”

  “He didn’t make any sense,” Mary said. “I couldn’t repeat anything he said to the police. I—well, I hung up on him.”

  “Still,” Joe said, “they’ll want to know what he said.”

  “But he didn’t say anything! I mean, anything that made sense. Are you sure I need to call this detective?”

  “It would look better if you called McCullough before he called you.”

  “But why would he try to contact me? How would he even know Mendenhall had called me? I mean, just because I was on the list.”

  Joe explained about phone records being readily available to investigators. “So I’m sorry, Mary. But the police will have your number, and they’ll want to know what Mendenhall had to say.”

  Ramona broke off the discussion.

  “We’d better drop this,” she said. “George found an excellent juror to take Mendenhall’s place, and we need to approve paying him.”

  George then repeated his story about getting the cooperation of Dr. Thomas Harrison. All the artists looked properly impressed. Then George turned to Ramona. “But Dr. Harrison said he would decline payment for his service.”

  Everyone murmured at that, but I spoke up. “We should refuse his offer, George.”

  “But why? We need the money.”

  “True. But we want to do things in a professional way. I would suggest that we go ahead and approve paying his fee. Then, if he wants, he can make a donation of an equal amount to the festival. That way he can receive a tax deduction for the donation. I don’t think our fee is large enough to cause him an income tax problem.”

  The committee approved that plan, and the meeting adjourned. As it did, I realized that it had been remarkable for one thing.

  Mozelle had been there, and she hadn’t said a word.

  Chapter 7

  The idea of Mozelle being at a meeting and not saying anything was so surprising that for a moment I thought she must have left. I quickly looked around the room. There was Mozelle. Yes, she had attended the whole meeting, and, no, she hadn’t said anything.

  Odd. It was hard to believe that Mozelle hadn’t felt compelled to add to the discussion. Mozelle always talked, whether she had anything useful to say or not.

  I was still mulling this over when Joe leaned over and spoke into my ear. He said he wanted to catch his mother as soon as she came in, to reassure her that neither of us had been given the third degree by the Lake Knapp police. He left me still considering Mozelle’s unexpected silence. By the time I had slung my shawl around my shoulders, I decided Mozelle’s actions were not my prime consideration that evening, and I was ready to join the art show opening. But when I left the WinterFest office, Mozelle popped up in front of me so suddenly I jumped as if I’d stepped on a snake.

  “You’ve certainly had an interesting twenty-four hours,” she said.

  “A little too interesting.”

  “Mendenhall—did he say anything to you about having a Michigan connection?”

  “No, Mozelle. I understood from George that it was important for a juror not to know the artists in our region.”

  “Oh, he might not know the artists personally. But if people enter art shows around the country, he might be familiar with their work.”

  “If he was, he didn’t mention it. But we only exchanged a few words.”

  “He might have forgotten.”

  “Might have forgotten what?”

  “Whom, Lee. Not what.”

  I finally saw that Mozelle was giving me a hint. “Oh,” I said, “did you know him?”

  “Oh, no!” Her voice was horrified. “No, no! Not me.”

  “Then whom are you talking about?”

  “I’d prefer not to say. And I wasn’t present when this alleged episode occurred.” Mozelle looked around, apparently checking to see who was standing behind her. “I heard that a local artist was in a show Mendenhall judged several years ago. The artist didn’t like the way the judging went. The two of them supposedly exchanged words.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Then they exchanged punches.”

  “You’d better tell the police about this,” I said.

  “Do you think so?” Her voice was slyer than ever. My reaction was a desire to exchange a punch or two myself. With Mozelle. She was trying to get some Warner Pier artist in trouble.

  “If Mendenhall had an enemy here, Mozelle, the police need that information.”

  “I’d really prefer not to get involved.”

  “I’m afraid you will be, like it or not. The police will be calling everyone whose name was on that list of committee members.”

  Mozelle smiled her sly smile again. “Then they won’t be contacting me. I’m not on that list.”

  “You’re not?”

  “If it’s the list in the WinterFest brochure, the ex officio members were not listed. Mayor Herrera and I were omitted.”

  She turned and left the room, still smiling.

  I followed her into the reception room. I was seething—Mozelle always had that effect on me—but I tried to look pleasant.

  When Jason Foster had remodeled the main Warner Point house into a restaurant, he’d warmed it up a lot from Clementine Ripley’s original decor. For one thing, he covered the big windows with deep red draperies, so we were not staring out into the winter darkness.

  I walked past the main dining room, where the tables wore white cloths and were centered with jewel-toned lamps surrounded by seasonal greenery dotted with shiny golden balls. Then I went across the entry hall and toward the east end of the building. The art show was set up in a large room Jason used for private dinners and receptions. It had once been Clementine Ripley’s five-car garage.

  Screens and special lighting had turned the area into a labyrinth. Pieces of sculpture were dotted here and there, including a large metal reindeer created by Johnny Owens. A mobile hung overhead. The bar and the main food service table were in an anteroom. Already the area was filling with art lovers; Warner Pier’s winter population may be only 2,500, but it seems that at least half are artists or gallery owners. Plus, the Warner Pier Winter Festival Art Show had begun attracting art fans from Holland, from Kalamazoo, from Grand Rapids, and from the other art colonies scattered up and down the shore of Lake Michigan. I recognized people from Saugatuck and from South Haven.

  When I got to the food room, which was decorated with greenery and golden ornaments coordinating with the restaurant dining room, I was just in time to see Aunt Nettie receive a round of applause. She had unveiled the centerpiece, a gorgeous snowman—eighteen inches tall and sporting a red-and-white scarf, a traditional pipe and stovepipe hat, soft brown eyes, and a joyful grin.

  The snowman—we’d been calling him “Warner” around the office—was constructed completely of chocolate, of course. His body was white chocolate, his eyes were milk chocolate, and his hat and pipe were dark chocolate. The red scarf and his happy grin were of white chocolate tinted red. His body had been dusted with sugar so that it glittered like snow. He was displayed among drifts of puffy cotton.

  Warner was a work of art, and Aunt Nettie had spent hours and hours building him, hidden in the back room so that he would come as a complete surprise at the opening
.

  Aunt Nettie flushed and beamed as she acknowledged the applause. When it stopped, she said, “I will ask a favor of next year’s WinterFest committee, however. Could you pick a Yule log as your symbol? Or something else that’s brown? Purists are sure to complain because I used white chocolate for this snowman—but a milk or dark chocolate snowman just didn’t seem right.”

  Everyone chuckled, but unless they were chocolate snobs, they might not have grasped the full significance of her comment. Those purists she referred to claim that white chocolate isn’t really chocolate at all, since it contains only cacao butter, but no cacao solids. I tend to agree with them. If I’m really hungry for something sweet, white chocolate is sugary enough to suit—I’ll eat chocolate in any form—but it doesn’t compare in flavor to dark chocolate with a high cacao content of seventy or eighty percent.

  I thought about the smaller snowmen Aunt Nettie and Dolly Jolly and her staff of chocolate experts—the ones I call the “hairnet ladies”—were making for the WinterFest promotion. These wouldn’t be on sale until the festival officially opened the next day. The day before I’d grabbed up a box of a dozen—four of each color—to give to Fletcher Mendenhall. I wondered idly if the Lake Knapp police were eating them, or if they would languish in some evidence room until they were ruined.

  I agreed with three people who made admiring remarks about Aunt Nettie’s creation, then grabbed a glass of white wine and went into the art show. It was already crowded, and people were still pouring in.

  I was immediately collared by Sarajane Harding, who was not only a member of the WinterFest committee, but a good friend of Aunt Nettie’s.

  “Lee, thanks for leaving the message to say Mendenhall wouldn’t be coming Tuesday.”

  “I hated to leave you with an empty room.”

  “No problem. It turned out that I needed to make an emergency trip to Wal-Mart late that afternoon. Since Mendenhall didn’t show up, I didn’t have to give him dinner.” Her dimples flashed. “You didn’t dump that awful Mendenhall because you were trying to protect me, did you?”