The Chocolate Snowman Murders (23 page)

“Someone did that with a razor blade or a craft knife,” Joe said. “How odd.”

“Let's check to see if they're all that way.”

We went back to the stack of twenty-five or so catalogs at the table by the entrance, and we checked all of them. Mozelle wasn't in there.

“Some other artist was on the back of her page,” I said. “So there are two missing.”

“There are probably more books someplace. I wonder if this page has been cut out of all of them.”

“I think I have one of these at the office. Seems as if either Mary or George passed a few out at one of the meetings.”

“Let's go over there and look. And speaking as a committee member, we'd better talk to George about this tomorrow. I hope this wasn't vandalism.”

We went in the street door at TenHuis Chocolade, and I went straight to the file drawer where I keep what I call my “club work.” I don't really belong to clubs, but I do serve on a committee for the Warner Pier Chamber of Commerce, as well as the WinterFest committee, so I have papers that are not related to work. I try to keep them separate, and I was sure I'd stuck all the papers I picked up at WinterFest meetings in that drawer. The WinterFest financial records are on my office computer and are backed up on a CD.

It took a little digging, but I found the copy of the art show catalog that had been handed out early.

“Aha!” I waved it triumphantly. Joe leaned over my shoulder, and we looked for Mozelle.

“Here she is,” I said, “right before Garrity. And on the other side is that artist Marie Fung.”

We both read about Marie Fung. She lived in Chicago and produced art she adapted on the computer. I barely remembered her show entry. Joe nodded to indicate that he was finished with the page, so I flipped back to Mozelle's information. We both read it silently.

“Sounds pretty ordinary to me,” Joe said. “She went to art school back east and then came home to join the Warner Pier art colony, not that the Warner Pier art colony noticed her presence.”

“She attended Gerhard College.”

“I never heard of it.”

“Seems as if I have. But I don't know where.”

As I gathered up my WinterFest papers to put them back in their drawer, I was completely mystified about Mozelle's biography and artist's statement being cut out of the art show catalog. Or had it been Marie Fung, the artist on the back of her page, who had been cut out?

Who on earth had done that? It had been a neat job that had been done carefully. It wasn't as if someone had ripped out a page to wrap up a wad of chewing gum.

Had all the catalogs been defaced in that way? Or only the ones out at the show? I vowed to check. When I got time. It was still Christmas season at TenHuis Chocolade. And I was a suspect in a murder case. Missing pages in an art show catalog would have to wait.

O
ur late dinner, followed by a visit to the art show and a quick stop for a little detection, meant it was nearly eleven when we got home and got ready for bed. Suddenly I gave a gasp. “Oh gosh, Joe! This darn committee meets tomorrow.”

“It does?”

“Eleven thirty at Warner Point. Dutch lunch. I'd completely forgotten that.”

Joe sighed. “Seems as if once the whole thing is under way, it could run on its own. But it will be a good chance to ask George about the missing page from the catalog.”

“Rats! I'll have to do a financial report first thing in the morning.”

As I climbed into bed, I turned to Joe. “I guess Mozelle simply can't be the murderer.”

“She's got a real good alibi.”

“I know. But it's got to be someone from Warner Pier—because of where we found Mendenhall's telephone.”

“Your pocket.”

“Right. If the killer has to be someone I know, sending Mozelle up the river would bother me less than sending someone I like. My grandmother would say I'm completely lacking in Christian charity when it comes to Mozelle.”

“I don't like her either. I wouldn't mind sending her up—as long as she was actually guilty. How about the snowman with the snow shovel? Could Mozelle have taken that role?”

I thought about it. “I suppose she might have. I think we can deduce that the snowman's head was not worn by anyone who was in tiptop condition. If the person had been stronger or had more stamina, he or she would have caught me.” I shuddered, and Joe pulled me over close to him so that when I went on talking, I was speaking into his neck. “That crazy head—thanks to it I can't guess at the snowman's height, and it sure hid the person's face.”

“So it could have been Mozelle,” Joe said. “Of course, if we're making a list of people who might have killed Mendenhall, Mozelle is not really a possibility.”

“I know. She was in Chicago. At a very fancy hotel.”

“Yep. Besides, her phone number was not on that list George Jenkins sent to Mendenhall. She wouldn't have known where Mendenhall was, and he wouldn't have known how to find her. If he'd had any reason to.”

We dropped the discussion then, and after a while we went to sleep.

At the breakfast table, I dragged out my list of committee members and their alibis for the night Mendenhall died.

Maggie McNutt had been at play practice. George Jenkins and Ramona had been together, hashing out a problem about the art show, until seven. After that, Ramona had been at home with her husband, and George had made a trip to Wal-Mart. Sarajane had also gone to Wal-Mart that evening. That wasn't as coincidental as it might seem. Warner Pier doesn't have a Wal-Mart, but it's impossible to enter either the one in Holland or the one in South Haven without running into a fellow Pier-ite.

Amos Hart had been rehearsing the WinterFest Chorales, so he had about fifty people to back up his whereabouts. Both Jason and Johnny Owens claimed to have been home—Jason going to bed early, but with his partner and his partner's grown son in the house, and Johnny watching a DVD of a Disney film when he wasn't talking to an art dealer who called from Chicago.

I didn't try to count the people who might have answered committee members' telephones, people like Ramona's husband, Bob VanWinkle-Snow. Bob had admitted he once had a public argument with Mendenhall, and I hadn't found out if he had an alibi for the night the guy died.

But I didn't want any of these people to be guilty. I wanted Mozelle to be guilty. And that didn't look likely.

At least I was going to see the rest of the WinterFest committee the next day, so I could check on how many more catalogs were floating around. Then we could find out if Mozelle and Marie Fung had been clipped out of all of them.

My head was spinning at eleven fifteen the next morning, when I drove onto the grounds of Warner Point for the WinterFest committee meeting. It seemed as if the situation couldn't get any more confused.

At least that was what I thought until I saw Gordon Hitchcock and his photographer in the circular drive in front of the building, getting equipment out of an LMTV van.

I rushed inside, eager to avoid another interview, and immediately ran into Chuck O'Riley, editor of the
Warner Pier Gazette
. He was sitting in the dining room, near a long table Jason had apparently set up for our meeting.

“Yikes!” I said. “LMTV is outside, and you're inside. Is there going to be a news conference?”

Chuck looked slightly pained. “The WinterFest committee is big news all of a sudden. When two people connected with the committee get murdered, it has that effect.”

Ramona was already in her place at the head of the meeting table. She switched her long gray ponytail around as if it were a real pony's tail and glared at Chuck. “Not a thing is going to go on at this meeting but routine business. We have nothing to do with a crime investigation. It's just a progress report.”

I shrugged. “I can snow 'em with really boring financials. We'll have the reporters sound asleep in five minutes.”

That drew only a small smile from Ramona. “I've been swamped with press calls since Mary died,” she said. “The reporters have been much more annoying than the police.”

Joe's voice came from the door. “That's because the police think they know who did it.”

He took me by the arm and led me over to Ramona. He took her arm with his other hand and marched the two of us into a corner, well away from Chuck O'Riley. When he spoke, his voice was low, but firm.

“Ramona, I'm sure you understand that the cops—at least the Lake Knapp cops—consider Lee and me the main suspects.”

“That's ridiculous!” Bless Ramona's heart. She sounded outraged.

Joe spoke again, still keeping his voice low. “I appreciate your support. But that's the situation right now. Would it be best for the committee if Lee and I both resigned?”

Ramona stared at him for a long moment. Then she spoke. “No!”

“It might take the heat off you.”

Ramona drew herself up, switched her ponytail again, and spoke loudly. “If I can't stand some heat, I'd better get off the committee. We can't do without you and Lee.”

Then she turned and went back to the head of the table just as Gordon Hitchcock and his cameraman came in.

“Welcome,” she said firmly. “Thanks for coming. The WinterFest committee was formed to publicize Warner Pier and bring business to our community. We're delighted that a Grand Rapids news medium is covering our activities.”

“Actually, we're here to ask questions,” Gordon Hitchcock said.

Ramona looked at her watch. “Then ask quickly. We're all businesspeople. That's why we're meeting over lunch.”

Gordon signaled, and his cameraman began to film.

“Two people connected with the Warner Pier WinterFest have been murdered. Are you continuing with the scheduled activities?”

“Of course.” Ramona's voice was firm. “I've discussed this with the investigating officers, and they see no point in canceling our plans.”

“Does that seem—well—heartless?”

“We are all grieving for Mary Samson, who was a longtime member of our community and a friend to most of us. Of course, none of us knew Professor Mendenhall, so his death is not such a personal loss. However, the Warner Pier WinterFest has never pretended to be anything other than what it is—a business promotion for our town.”

“But—” Gordon Hitchcock tried to say something, and Ramona stopped him with a gesture. She kept on talking.

“Our business community has sunk a lot of money into preparing and promoting this year's WinterFest. We would be failing our responsibilities if we simply dropped the whole thing because of these unfortunate occurrences.”

“But what about danger to people who come to the WinterFest?”

“There is no danger to WinterFest patrons. I've talked about this with our local police chief and with Lieutenant VanDam of the Michigan State Police. Neither of them feels that there's any threat at all to people who come to our art show, who attend our musical and dramatic performances, who visit our terrific shops and art galleries, or who eat in our delightful restaurants. The danger is that they'll stay home and miss the fun.”

“Do you have any idea who might have killed Professor Mendenhall or Ms. Samson?”

“No. And if I did, I wouldn't tell you and your camera. I'd pass that information along to the proper authorities.”

Gordon and the cameraman stopped filming. They took seats near Chuck, where they drew curious gazes as the other committee members came in. George Jenkins looked more tweedy than ever, Amos Hart wore his bow tie and snow boots, Johnny Owen carried his doodling pad and pencil, and Sarajane wore a woodsman outfit of wool plaid shirt and jeans.

Jason pulled up a small table for the press so they could eat, too. Only two committee members were not present by the time we had all ordered our food, and Ramona called the meeting to order. Maggie McNutt and Mozelle were not there.

Maggie had a conflict with her duties as a teacher at Warner Pier High School, Ramona announced, and had phoned in a report that morning. But there was no explanation as to why Mozelle wasn't there. Her absence seemed odd, because Mozelle was always there and always early.

Sarajane passed out the minutes, giving copies to Gordon Hitchcock and to Chuck. We approved them. Then Ramona called for the financial report.

The report had taken me an hour I didn't have to spare, but I had it ready. I passed copies around the table and handed copies to Gordon Hitchcock and Chuck O'Riley. I read off the highlights.

Then I heard a voice from the press section. Gordon Hitchcock was on his feet. “May I ask a question?”