The Chocolate Snowman Murders (18 page)

Remembering how Reverend Pinkney and I had parted—with his offer of pastoral guidance—I almost jumped guiltily. But I managed to recover and pretend to be calm.

Chuck Pinkney then introduced me to an attractive and very pregnant companion. “My wife, Darla.”

“How do you do, Darla,” I said, determined to keep up the illusion that I had nothing on my mind but the WinterFest activities. “Are you enjoying the play?”

“Oh, yes. We all need a laugh these days, don't we?”

“I know I do.”

Darla and I had exchanged two or three more similarly witty and intelligent remarks when Amos Hart and Mozelle French entered the periphery of my vision. They seemed to be intent on joining their pastor.

I started to move away, but before I could say good-bye, Darla Pinkney spoke. “Maybe I ought to get off my feet, Chuck.”

Chuck gallantly took her arm and escorted her toward the auditorium.

Joe and I followed, but I don't think Darla knew quite how close we were behind them. Just as we reached the door to the auditorium, she spoke to Chuck again. I could tell she was trying to speak quietly, but I heard her clearly.

“Sorry, but Mr. Blessed and Mrs. Assurance were headed toward us. I don't have the patience you do.”

If Chuck replied, I didn't hear what he said. Maybe I was occupied with hiding a grin. “Mr. Blessed and Mrs. Assurance.” A reference to an oversentimental old hymn, and the perfect description of Mozelle and Amos.

I felt myself warming toward Darla, and even toward Chuck. For the first time I considered that Amos' religiosity might not reflect his pastor's. In fact, it might be a real pain in the neck to his pastor.

 

We were drinking coffee at Aunt Nettie's house when Hogan came home. He looked even more tired than Joe had, and he hadn't had dinner. Nettie began to fix something for him, and Joe and I got up to say good-bye.

“See you round the cop shop,” I said. “I guess I'm still suspect number one.”

Joe and Hogan exchanged a look.

“Come on, guys,” I said. “I can take it. I know McCullough thinks I killed Mendenhall.”

“Actually . . .” Hogan spoke slowly. “Actually, Lee, when we found out how many phone calls Mendenhall made after he checked into the motel, you moved pretty far down the list. All those calls pretty well prove that he was alive after you dropped him off. Even McCullough can't see you running back to Lake Knapp an hour or two later to do him in.”

“He thinks I killed Mendenhall,” Joe said. “He thinks you killed Mary Samson.”

“But that's ridiculous! Isn't he convinced by Hogan's idea about Mendenhall phoning for paid companionship?”

Hogan frowned. “The phone records don't back that up.”

“You mean there's no such number on Mendenhall's phone? But what about the room phone?”

“None there.”

“What about that sleazy desk clerk.”

“He claims he never does such a thing. . . .”

“Oh, sure.”

“He even offered his own cell phone to show that he hadn't made such a call Thursday night.”

“How about the motel pay phone?”

“There isn't one.” Hogan sighed. “Sorry, Lee, but there's no proof that Mendenhall called anyone on any phone except people on that list of WinterFest members.”

T
here didn't seem to be any more to say. Apparently neither Joe nor I faced immediate arrest—probably because Alex VanDam knew us well enough to think we weren't very likely candidates as murderers.

But he wasn't in charge of the Lake Knapp end of the investigation. McCullough was, and he must have decided that while neither of us could have killed both Mendenhall and Mary Samson, we could each have killed one of them and helped the other cover up the crime.

He could give us a lot of grief. He'd already warned me he could make me sorry. I shuddered as I remembered his words. “I can throw you to the wolves anytime I want to.”

Anyway, I wouldn't say I slept real well that night, and I had a hard time dragging myself into the office the next morning. It was Saturday, but we would be open all day because of the WinterFest promotion.

As I went into the shop, ready to open the front door for customers, I remember thinking, “At least things can't get much worse.”

I was wrong. When I opened the door, one of those wolves McCullough had threatened me with was right outside.

I didn't recognize that first wolf, but I felt as though I ought to. He was good-looking, with dark hair cut fashionably, and he was familiar, though I couldn't remember why. But I'm a Texan, and we're brought up to be friendly, so I greeted him like a long-lost pal. Or an important customer.

“Hi, there,” I said, smiling brightly. “Nice to see you. Come on in.”

He had a toothy, lobolike smile. When he spoke, his voice was mellow. “You're Mrs. Woodyard.”

That remark told me I didn't know him well, but it still seemed as if I ought to recognize him.

“Yes, I'm Lee Woodyard. I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name.” I stuck out my hand.

He shook my hand, and his grin became even toothier. “I'm Gordon Hitchcock. LMTV news. I wanted to bring you a videotape of all our coverage of the Winter Festival.”

Oh, Lordy! I'd never met this guy. He seemed familiar because I'd seen him on one of the Grand Rapids television stations.

I yanked my hand away and stepped back, ready to refuse to answer questions. I knew enough to be wary of television reporters bearing gift tapes. Could I order him out of the shop?

It was too late. Gordon Hitchcock was inside; he strolled over to the counter and casually laid the tape down beside the cash register.

“Sometimes a tape like that can help committees get grants for future projects,” he said. “We've tried to help your project. In fact, we ran a long interview with your spokeswoman.”

“Mozelle French? Yes, I believe I saw it.”

“In fact, we ran that interview twice. At least, excerpts from it ran again last Tuesday.”

“Thanks for bringing the tape,” I said. “But you should take it to Ramona VanWinkle-Snow, our chair. She's right down the street at Snow Photography.”

“Sergeant McCullough suggested that I talk to you. And a chocolate shop is so much more fun to visit than a photography studio is.”

Gordon Hitchcock might be a wolf, but he was using only the best butter. He'd approached me in a way, with a gift and a compliment, that would hardly let me toss him out of the shop. I decided I'd better try my own best butter on him. I'd be friendly, but I wouldn't talk about anything but chocolate.

“TenHuis Chocolade is very proud of our product,” I said. “Let me give you a sample.”

“You don't need to.”

“All visitors to TenHuis Chocolade get a bonbon or a truffle.” I walked behind the counter. “You look like a Jamaican rum kind of guy. That's an all-dark chocolate bonbon. Or would you prefer Baileys Irish Cream? A dark chocolate bonbon with a classic cream liqueur interior. If you like milk chocolate, I can recommend the coffee truffle. Milk chocolate inside and out, flavored with Caribbean coffee.”

“I had a few questions about these killings, Mrs. Woodyard. You knew both Dr. Fletcher Mendenhall and Mary Samson.”

“Sorry. I can't talk about that. Maybe you'd like to try a strawberry truffle. The interior is white chocolate flavored with real strawberries, and it's coated with dark chocolate.”

“Sergeant McCullough says you have been questioned about the killings several times.”

“My husband and I are cooperating with the investigating officers in any way we can. But if you want a statement, you'd better talk to Sergeant McCullough or to Lieutenant VanDam of the state police.” I gave him a smile that matched his, tooth for tooth. “All I do is sell chocolate.”

I don't know if Hitchcock gave a signal of some sort or what, but the door to the shop opened again, and a scrawny guy came in. On his shoulder he was holding a camera, which he aimed like a bazooka. I almost expected flames to shoot out of it.

I swallowed a growl and smiled at the second wolf. “Oh, good! You're going to take some pictures of our marvelous chocolates. We're very proud of them. Here, have a sample.” I reached into the case and brought out a mocha pyramid, then held it toward the camera. “This features a milky coffee-flavored interior enrobed in dark chocolate and formed into a pyramid. The ancient Egyptians never had anything like this! But maybe the ancient Aztecs did; after all, they also built pyramids. The Aztecs used cacao beans for money as well as for making chocolate drinks!”

I went on talking inanely about chocolate—“The emperor Montezuma supposedly drank chocolate before he visited his harem, you know”—and Hitchcock kept asking me questions about the murders.

“Were you the last person to see Professor Mendenhall?”

“I don't know about that. But I do know that chocolate houses were centers of political discussion in seventeenth-century England.”

I didn't see how he was going to get anything usable out of my stupid remarks, but he scared me. I felt extremely relieved when he finally said, “Well, I guess you're not going to tell us anything, Mrs. Woodyard.”

I smiled, thinking he was going to leave. “Oh, I can talk about chocolate all day long.”

And then he zinged me. “Yeah. You obviously care a lot about chocolate. But I guess you just don't care a lot about Mary Samson.”

Stabbed. Right through the heart.

I lost it. “Listen, bud,” I said, “Mary Samson was as sweet, shy, and kind a person as anyone who ever lived. She was killed in a cruel way. I'm not going to sensationalize her death so you can increase your ratings. Please leave.”