The Chocolate Snowman Murders Page 8

  “No, Sarajane. I dumped him because I didn’t want to drive for an hour over icy roads with an amorous drunk. But I wouldn’t have dumped him on you either, once I realized the state he was in.”

  “I assure you that after twenty years in the B and B biz, I know how to handle a drunk.”

  “I’m sure you do. But aren’t you there alone at the inn this time of year?”

  Sarajane spoke sharply. “Why do you ask?”

  “I was just wondering how you would handle an inebriated guest.”

  “Oh. Well. Actually I have a friend staying with me right at the moment.”

  “How nice. Is she here tonight?”

  “No! No, she decided to have an early evening. But, anyway, I’m not exactly alone at the inn right now.”

  “But how do you handle it when you are alone?”

  “I wouldn’t say there’s a problem twice a year, Lee. Of course, I ask all the guests for references, plus credit card information or cash.”

  “But that’s financial, isn’t it? I mean, to make sure they’ll pay the bill.” Sarajane’s bills are steep. “A good financial reputation won’t stop obnoxious personal behavior.”

  “I have a lock on the door of my apartment, of course.” Sarajane leaned close and smiled her sweet smile. “And I sleep with a pistol in the bedside table.”

  Sarajane slept with a pistol beside her? I was surprised, but I tried to joke her comment off. “If I need to come by your house late at night, I’ll be sure to call first.”

  “Good idea. I find time for regular target practice. It’s a habit I got into after my marriage broke up. I’m sure Nettie has told you my ex is in jail.” She nodded firmly. Then she walked over to talk to Mayor Mike Herrera.

  I stared after her. Sarajane’s ex-husband was in jail? And she kept a pistol beside her bed? If Sarajane were threatened, would she actually use that weapon?

  Somehow I didn’t doubt that she would. Sarajane might look like a sweet little old lady, but those dimples were on the cheeks of a very hard head.

  Had Aunt Nettie told me something about Sarajane’s ex-husband being abusive? I’d have to ask. But I sure wouldn’t approach Sarajane’s inn without warning her I was coming. Joe, the former defense attorney, had assured me that the most unlikely people can resort to violence, and I had no reason not to believe him.

  Except maybe I wouldn’t believe Mary Samson could become violent. That thought of Mary becoming violent was a little too unlikely.

  Mary was walking toward me, still looking worried. “Lee, is Joe right? Do I really need to tell the police about that phone call?”

  “Joe spent five years as a defense attorney. He’s had a lot of experience with investigation of crimes.”

  Mary looked as if she’d like to wring her hands, but she was holding a tall glass of something I assumed was ginger ale. “But the things that man on the phone said . . . the language he used . . . it’s just too embarrassing to repeat.”

  “I assure you that the police will have heard much worse language.”

  “I suppose so. But he actually accused me . . . Well, Lee, could I tell you about it?”

  “Of course, Mary. But is this a good time?”

  “Oh, no! You’re right. I could call you later.”

  “We’re not planning to be out late. I’ll call you when I get home.”

  Amos Hart, who had been standing behind Mary in the crowded room, picked that moment to put his hand on her shoulder, and Mary yelped as if he’d kicked her. She turned around, looking panicky.

  “Oh, Mr. Hart! You startled me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary. I just wanted to say you look very pretty tonight.”

  I was surprised by Amos’ comment. Mary could have been pretty, but she wasn’t wearing makeup, her hair was badly cut, and her fluffy dress was much too childish for a woman in her early to middle twenties. I would have loved to turn Mary over to a good stylist for a complete redo.

  Maybe a complete redo would give her some confidence. Amos’ innocuous comment on her appearance seemed to have thrown her into an emotional crisis. She blushed, stammered, and spilled her drink down the front of her dress. Then she turned and fled.

  Amos looked appalled. “Was I that crude? I was just trying to be nice to that poor child.”

  “You were fine, Amos. Nobody ever told Mary that when you get a compliment all you have to do is say thanks.”

  “I had a compliment for your aunt, too. The big snowman is wonderful!”

  “I’ll tell her you said so. He’ll be displayed in our window for the rest of the WinterFest.”

  “And the small snowmen are great, too! I really like the singing one: The way his mouth makes an ‘O’ is super.”

  “Yes, he’s delightful. But where did you see him?”

  “Weren’t there some on the refreshment table?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re not on sale until tomorrow.”

  Amos looked confused. “Then I don’t know where it was.”

  I sipped my wine and decided it would be tactful to change the subject. “I’m looking forward to the choral concert next weekend. Are you pleased with the way it’s going?”

  “I’m hopeful. It’s surprising how many good voices there are in a small town like Warner Pier. I think it’s a tribute to the quality of choral music instruction in the schools and the churches.”

  “The churches? I thought most of our churches were too small to have real choir directors—except for your church, of course. Most churches here don’t even have regular choirs.”

  “They don’t in winter perhaps. Like everything in Warner Pier, the churches get larger when the summer people come, and the choirs follow that trend.” I’d brought up a subject Amos had obviously studied, because he began to enumerate which of the Warner Pier churches had professional choir directors and which of them had active choirs. And how large those choirs were. I was amazed at the amount of information he had collected.

  Amos was still lecturing me about the local choirs when Mozelle joined us. To my surprise, she touched Amos on the arm. “I don’t feel compelled to stay all evening,” she said. “We can leave whenever you’ve seen enough.”

  “We?” Since when were Amos and Mozelle “we”?

  I nearly choked on my white wine. Instead I sipped it gently and tried not to show my surprise. “I haven’t looked at a thing,” I said. “I’d better start oozing—I mean, ogling! I’d better start ogling the art.”

  “That’s exactly the right word for some of it,” Amos said. “Ogle, I mean. I’m no art expert, but the meanings of some of the pieces are unmistakable, and not what I’d call uplifting.”

  I chuckled and tried to make the sound casual. “I’ll look for the works with the most people around them. Controversy always brings crowds.”

  “They may not be controversial in Warner Pier,” Mozelle said. “The town has grown more and more liberal artistically.”

  “I’m sorry to say I think you’re right,” Amos said.

  “Lee, that’s why I believe you’d enjoy our church—even if you don’t want to sing in my choir.”

  “I’m sorry, Amos. You lost me. What do you mean?” He spoke earnestly. “I mean that you’re from Texas. That’s part of the Bible Belt. You probably grew up in conservative churches.”

  “Actually, in Prairie Creek the First United Methodist was considered scandalously liberal,” I said. “I see Joe over there, and I need to tell him something. Bye.”

  I walked away, hoping that steam wasn’t shooting out my ears. I hate it when people assume that because I’m from Texas I think a certain way. Texans tend to be independent thinkers, after all. It’s not that I was insulted by being considered a religious conservative. I probably am conservative by some people’s standards. It’s that I hate being judged by where I grew up, especially by people who have never been in Texas and don’t know one thing about the state. So there.

  I’d calmed down by the time I’d made my way through
the crowd and had reached Joe. I took his arm, just the way Mozelle had taken Amos’. “Seen anything you want to buy?”

  “I thought the budget wouldn’t allow art purchases?”

  “Probably not. I haven’t really looked at the show yet. Have you?”

  “No. But I’ve seen all the people I needed to talk to.”

  We laughed and began to walk around and look at the art. The first-place winner, I decided, was the one Amos Hart had found offensive. It was an oil by an artist I didn’t know and, yes, you didn’t have to understand symbolism to get what it was about. I admired the colors and textures, but I was not tempted to put it in our living room.

  Johnny Owens’ reindeer had received an honorable mention. It was displayed in front of Mozelle’s watercolor—her usual pale pastel beach scene. The first judge had obviously seen something in her work that I didn’t or she wouldn’t even be in the show.

  I caught my breath when I saw the best of show. It was a dramatic photograph of a storm over Lake Michigan and had been taken by Ramona’s husband, Bob Van Winkle-Snow. Bob himself, a blocky guy whose shoulderlength gray hair flew in all directions, was holding court in front of the photo.

  “Oh, Bob!” I said. “It’s stunning!”

  Bob smiled. “I’m highly gratified that Dr. Harrison liked it. Believe me, if that jerk Mendenhall had judged the show it wouldn’t have won a thing.”

  Chapter 8

  I must have looked surprised, because Bob got defensive.

  “Sorry if you don’t think I should speak ill of the dead,” he said.

  “Neither of us will argue with your opinion of Mendenhall, no matter how bad it is,” Joe said, “and I don’t think the fact that he’s dead changed any of his personal characteristics. I guess you knew the guy.”

  “We exchanged a few words. In fact, we exchanged them publicly. He was one of these dinosaurs who think photography isn’t an art form.”

  I pointed to the photograph with the big rosette on the corner. “That’s definitely art to me, Bob. It’s beautiful to look at and moving emotionally. Where was it shot?”

  Bob looked proud and began to tell where he had taken it and to describe the darkroom techniques he had used to heighten the storm clouds. No, he said, it wasn’t computer enhanced.

  “Though I do use the computer sometimes. That’s one of the things idiots like Mendenhall won’t accept.”

  The conversational group shifted then, and Joe and I moved on. But I moved on convinced that Bob VanWinkle-Snow was the person Mozelle had been talking about when she said Mendenhall had a public fight with a Warner Pier artist. Bob was the person she’d wanted to set up as a suspect without going to the police herself.

  It was simply too coincidental that the dirt Mozelle was spreading around besmirched the husband of her archrival, Ramona. And Bob certainly wasn’t making a secret of his feelings about Mendenhall. Didn’t that indicate he wasn’t concerned in his death?

  As I walked away I was furious with Mozelle all over again. I became completely determined that I wouldn’t mention what she had said to anybody. Not even to Sergeant McCullough. Not even if he asked.

  Joe spoke in to my ear, which was the best way to communicate in the noisy room. “Hogan and Nettie asked us to go to dinner with them,” he said. “I hope that’s all right with you. You said you wanted to go home early.”

  “No, it’s a good idea. I want to talk to Hogan.”

  As Aunt Nettie had said, what’s the point of having a police chief in the family if you don’t use him. I was dying to go over the whole Mendenhall situation with Hogan.

  I began rehearsing my story as I hit the party’s food table, determined to stick to veggies and not ruin my appetite for dinner. And there I came face-to-face with a fellow WinterFest committee member, Jason Foster, manager of the Warner Pier Conference Center and operator of its restaurant.

  Since Jason was in charge of the reception, I wasn’t surprised to see him standing behind the steamboat round. His long white chef’s jacket, neckerchief, and George Washington–style queue made him look like an eighteenth-century dandy who had laid his velvet coat aside.

  “Hi,” I said. “I suppose you’re too busy feeding the rest of us to get anything to eat yourself.”

  Jason grinned. “I sampled everything in the kitchen. How about some roast beef?” He deftly sliced a thin sliver of pink meat, and I caught it on a tiny piece of rye bread.

  “I left the meeting early,” Jason said, “so I didn’t get to hear all you and Joe had to report on the big murder investigation.”

  “We didn’t have anything startling to say—the Lake Knapp police are not confiding in us. The main thing, I guess, is that after I dumped Mendenhall at the motel, he may have tried to call someone in Warner Pier. I don’t suppose he phoned you?”

  “If he did, I didn’t get the call.” Jason leaned close to me. “To tell the truth, George finished hanging the show about seven, and I went home and had a stiff scotch. DeWitt’s here, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  DeWitt was the grown son of Jason’s partner, Casey. “He doesn’t come often, does he?”

  “No, but this year he’s determined to spoil my Christmas by making me be polite when I’m home as well as when I’m at work.” Jason grimaced. “Maybe I’m jealous. Anyway, I went to bed early and left DeWitt and Casey to their reminiscences. For one thing, I knew it was the last time I’d get any sleep for a couple of weeks.”

  “I think everyone was trying to gather strength for the big event,” I said. “We’re all afraid we’ll have to work too hard—and afraid we won’t.”

  Jason and I shared a smile. If the Winter Festival promotion went over well, Warner Pier merchants would be exhausted. If it flopped, they’d be standing around with nothing to do. In the one case, we’d all be tired, but happy. In the other we’d be less tired, but extremely unhappy. So we were hoping for exhaustion.

  A half hour later lots of the art patrons were moving into the restaurant dining room for dinner, so Hogan and Joe suggested the four of us avoid the crowd by going to Herrera’s. Aunt Nettie and I readily agreed.

  “Maybe Aunt Nettie can get some peace there,” I said. “She’s the belle of the art show because of the success of her big snowman.” Aunt Nettie smiled modestly.

  Herrera’s is one of four restaurants owned by Mike Herrera, a person who affects our lives in lots of ways. First, since he’s the mayor of Warner Pier, he’s Joe’s boss in his one-day-a-week job as city attorney. Second, Mike is the father-in-law of one of my best friends, Lindy Herrera. Third, he dates Joe’s mom. Fourth, he’s a fellow businessman in our community.

  This combination of connections proves one thing: Warner Pier is definitely a small town. As the old joke says, our town is too little to have a village idiot; we all have to take turns.

  But Mike is no idiot. He’s an intelligent and practical businessman. He’s also the first Hispanic to hold an elective office in Warner Pier. I like and respect him. And his restaurants have great food.

  Lindy was on duty at Herrera’s that night, seating guests and acting as manager—probably because Mike had to be at the WinterFest reception in his civic capacity. Her primary job is to manage Mike’s catering operation.

  When the four of us said we wanted to talk, Lindy gave us a table in the corner. Herrera’s is a class operation. Even during the summer rush it’s quiet, and it was ultraquiet that night, less than two weeks before Christmas. The background music actually stayed in the background.

  The restaurant was wearing its winter decor. Herrera’s is right down on the river, and in the summer the French doors are left open, and diners can have tables on the deck. In the winter the French doors are covered with shutters and are flanked by burgundy velvet draperies. Paintings in dark tones replace the pale beach scenes Mike hangs in summer.

  I love all of Mike’s restaurants because he’s a Texas native like me, and at his places I can get iced tea all year-round.
But Herrera’s is the restaurant that makes me feel sophisticated and pampered.

  Joe, Hogan, Aunt Nettie, and I all claimed that we had only lightly grazed the hors d’oeuvres table at the reception, so we ordered dinner, and Hogan made a little ritual out of choosing a bottle of wine for the table. Then Joe and I reported on Mendenhall’s death and the day we’d had dealing with its effects.

  Joe concluded with his deduction about Mendenhall’s cell phone being missing.

  Hogan nodded. “Sounds as if you’re right, not that it means anything.”

  I was surprised at his reaction. “It doesn’t mean anything? But won’t the Lake Knapp cops want to find out who took it?”

  “Sure. It’s evidence—just like anything that’s missing from the room. But they can trace his calls without having the phone. And whom do you think he called?”

  “George had given him a list of the WinterFest committee. I’d expect him to call one of them. Anyway, at the meeting before the reception, Joe and I urged anyone who heard from Mendenhall to contact this Sergeant McCullough.”

  “Did anyone say they had talked to Mendenhall?”

  “Not really. Mary Samson said she got a crank call from someone who sounded drunk. A lot of people said they hadn’t been home last night. Most of them were out doing committee business—hanging the art show or at play rehearsal or something.”

  “So if Mendenhall tried to call them, he probably couldn’t reach anyone.” Hogan grinned. “What do you think he would have done next?”

  I shrugged. “Gone out to eat? How would I know?”

  Joe laughed. “I think I see what Hogan is getting at, Lee. And he’s probably right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Mendenhall. Picture the guy. You had raised his hopes for an exciting evening, then dumped him in a cheap motel. He couldn’t reach anybody who was interested in coming to rescue him. So what would he want next?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Joe.”

  Aunt Nettie reached across the table and patted my hand. “Companionship, Lee.”