The Chocolate Snowman Murders (25 page)

A murmur of agreement went around the table. Jason, ever the restaurateur, jumped to his feet and offered to get Mozelle some lunch. Amos Hart patted her shoulder, though that didn't seem to comfort Mozelle. Johnny Owens examined the catalog she'd tossed onto the table and muttered a few opinions about the ancestry of anybody who would do such a thing to an artist. Joe got up from the table and asked Jason if he could use the telephone. He received permission and left the room.

Mozelle seemed genuinely appreciative of everyone's concern. “Thank you. All of you. I apologize for losing my temper.”

We all assured her that we understood her feelings, and the board quickly voted to fund the extra printing as a nonbudget item.

In the lull that followed the vote, I spoke. “Now we call the police.”

Joe was back. “I called them after George made it clear he knew of no reason for the page to be cut out of the catalog.”

Ramona looked surprised. “Do we have to involve the police?”

I spoke before Joe could. “Of course! Ramona, this was vandalism. Or malicious mischief. It's going to cost the committee quite a lot money to rectify the situation. It was a crime!”

“But it's such bad publicity,” Ramona said.

“I'm sorry about that. But we can't simply ignore it.” I'm sure I sounded miffed. I was the one who was going to have to find the money.

Joe did his lawyer thing at that point, clearing his throat in a way that made all eyes turn toward him. “We need to figure out who the heck cut that page out of the catalog, and why the heck they did it. And it's not only because we can't ignore vandalism. It's a lot more important than that.”

He had everybody's attention. “Several strange things have happened in the past few days, and they all seem to center on this committee.”

Ramona frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean two killings and an attempt on Lee's life. And now this.”

A mutter of objections broke out, but Joe spoke again and quelled the opposition. “Let's face facts. First, Mendenhall, the juror for our art show, is killed. Of course, we all hoped it was nothing to do with us. We hoped he was killed because he was an obnoxious drunk who took up with the wrong drinking buddy. Or something.”

“Wasn't that the reason?” Sarajane asked the question.

“I thought it might be to begin with, but Mary Samson's death put an end to that theory.”

Sarajane wasn't convinced. “Mary was killed when she surprised a burglar!”

“Mary was the only member of the committee who admitted talking to Mendenhall. We can't ignore that link.”

It was my turn to object. “But Mary said Mendenhall didn't say anything intelligent. She thought he was just a crank caller. She hung up on him.”

“There's got to be a connection, Lee. It's too coincidental. First Mendenhall, then Mary. Then, after Mary was killed, someone lured you out here to Warner Point before daybreak and tried to brain you with a snow shovel.” He patted my hand. “God knows why. I sure don't, and you don't seem to know either.”

Then he turned back to the rest of the committee. “And now we have a case of vandalism. That's not as serious as murder, true. But we can't just assume that this committee is the target of a weird crime spree for no reason. There's something that links all these things.”

Everyone at the table was staring at him as he went on. “The police will not be able to find the link unless each one of us gives them all the help we can. I think—and I believe Chief Jones agrees with me—that the whole series of events must key on Mendenhall. But Mendenhall appears”—he repeated the word—“
appears
to have been a complete stranger to Warner Pier and to everyone on the committee.”

He paused while that sank in. “If that's not true, the detectives need to know it. If any of you knew Mendenhall before he came here, the police need to know. No matter how innocent your contact with him was.”

Ramona frowned. “Bob and I had run into him at art shows. He and Bob had a blowup once. We already told the police about that.”

“And I had a couple of classes with him at Waterford,” Johnny Owens said. “I told the cops about that, too.”

“That's the kind of thing I mean,” Joe said. “If any of you ever had any connection with Mendenhall—or if any of you knows of someone who did—tell Hogan. No matter how minor it was.”

He paused for dramatic effect. “It might save your life.”

We heard a siren outside. Hogan was there.

Joe spoke one more time, raising his voice over the noise. “I'd advise you to hang around until we see if Hogan wants to talk to each of us individually.”

George and Joe met Hogan at the front door and took him into the inner recesses of Warner Point to show him the defaced catalogs. The rest of us concluded the meeting. Nobody had much to say. After Joe's speech, our actions were anticlimactic.

As soon as the meeting adjourned I got on Jason's phone and called the printer. After I told him what had happened, he agreed to do a hurry-up job on an insert for the catalog.

I turned to Mozelle. “The printer still has the original pages in his computer. He says he'll run off inserts tonight. We can pick them up tomorrow morning.”

She shook her head. “I feel very foolish about the fit I threw over this.”

“Forget it.” I was feeling uncomfortable. Her rant, including the accusation that “everyone on this committee hates me,” was a bit too close to the truth, at least the truth of how I felt about her. I wanted to change the subject. So I asked a question. “Mozelle, your bio said you went to Gerhard College?”

“Yes. For two years.”

“Where is that?”

“It's in Maryland. They had a top-notch art department, small but good. It was a girls' school.” She shrugged. “They still had girls' schools in my day.”

“It seems as if I've run into a mention of Gerhard College recently. But I can't remember where.”

“I can't imagine anybody but alumnae mentioning it. It closed up years ago.”

Amos Hart jumped into the conversation then with an abrupt question. “Lee, you were the only person to have any contact with Mendenhall. Did he say anything about knowing anybody in west Michigan?”

“He told me this was his first visit to Michigan. And he didn't indicate he knew anybody. Of course, he had met Ramona and Bob, and he might have remembered Johnny, since he was a former student. But he didn't mention having friends or acquaintances in the area.”

Amos put a proprietary hand on Mozelle's shoulder. “I just hate for this sweet little lady to be bothered—and, yes, persecuted—over this mess when I know she didn't have anything to do with it.”

Sweet little lady? That wasn't exactly the description I would have used to describe Mozelle. I bit my tongue.

But Mozelle didn't bite hers. She shook Amos' hand off, and she popped to her feet like a jack-in-the-box whose lid had just been lifted. “Amos,” she said, “let's talk for a minute.”

He followed meekly as she led him out into the restaurant's entrance hall.

I guess she thought they were out of earshot. She was wrong. I could hear their conversation plainly, even though I ducked my head and studied my financial report for all it was worth.

“Amos,” Mozelle said, “please do not put your hand on me again.”

“Mozelle! I didn't mean to offend you.”

“I'm sure you didn't. But it's giving people the wrong impression.”

“The wrong impression?”

“Yes. Just because we attended one or two events together, we are not a permanent couple.”

“But I'd like for us to become a permanent couple, Mozelle.”

“I'm sorry, Amos. I'm afraid I value my independence. I enjoy your companionship, of course. But that's all I'm interested in. If you want a more permanent relationship, I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere. And in the future please do not refer to me as a ‘sweet little lady.' ”

Frantically, I began to scribble on my report, trying to seem busy. I was afraid to get up; if my chair made a sound, Mozelle and Amos might figure out I'd overheard them. I didn't look up when Mozelle came back inside the restaurant. She sat down beside me, her lips in a tight line. Amos did not follow her in.

I was still trying to look occupied, and now I remembered I'd meant to take another look at Mendenhall's résumé. I dug through my folders until I found the copy that George Jenkins had passed around at the meeting when he told us about acquiring a new juror.

I looked the résumé over, trying to give the impression that it required all my concentration. I was curious about it, true, but my main intent was to distract Mozelle so that she wouldn't know I'd overheard her as she gave Amos the push.

Not that I blamed her for dumping him. The “sweet little lady” bit had been a step too far.

Still trying to look as if my mind were fully occupied with subjects that had nothing to do with Mozelle, I ran my finger down the résumé. It was the old-fashioned, detailed kind. It listed every show Mendenhall had jurored, every class he had taught, every award he had won. And I admit he had won a few. When I reached the final page—“Professional History”—one item caught my eye. My heart had just begun to pound when I heard Hogan's voice.

He was apparently addressing the entire room. “Thanks for staying. I think that for now we can just ask general questions. Does anyone have any idea how the catalogs came to be damaged?”

No one spoke.

Hogan nodded. “You can go. I may be calling you.”

We all began to gather up our belongings. I stuffed Mendenhall's résumé back into my folder. “Hogan,” I said, “I need to talk to you a minute.”

“Can it wait?”

“Not very well.” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice.

He sighed deeply. “What is it?”

Enlightened by Mozelle's faux pas—talking to Amos without realizing I could hear every word she said—I led him clear across the room, to a spot next to the French doors that led to the terrace. Then I pulled out Mendenhall's résumé.

“Look at this.” I pointed to the “Professional History” section. “Look where Mendenhall was teaching thirty years ago.”

“Gerhard College? Silvertown, Maryland? So?”

“That's where Mozelle studied art, Hogan! And he taught there as adjunct faculty for ten years. She must have known him.”

H
ogan looked at the page. Then he shrugged. “So what?”

Talk about feeling let down. I nearly melted into my boots. But I plugged on. “You're wanting to know all about everyone who might have known Mendenhall. This proves that Mozelle did. Has she volunteered this information?”

“No, and I'll ask her about it, Lee. But it doesn't ‘prove' anything, except that she might have known Mendenhall. And even if she did know him, it doesn't matter. She can't have killed him. She has an alibi.”

“Oh, I know! She was in Chicago.”

“Right. And Mendenhall didn't have her phone number. She's the only person on the WinterFest committee whose number is not in his cell phone. Plus, we've been assuming that whoever killed Mendenhall also killed Mary Samson. And Amos Hart says Mozelle was with him that evening.”

Hogan again assured me that he'd ask Mozelle directly about any connection she'd ever had with Mendenhall, but I walked away with my tail feathers dragging.

Like Joe, I didn't believe in coincidences. Mozelle had studied art in a “small, but good” department, and Mendenhall had been teaching in that department at the same time. They simply must have known each other. How could I find out more?

I'd ask Aunt Nettie.

Aunt Nettie had lived in Warner Pier all her life, and she was a friendly soul who knew everybody and heard everything. Maybe the best thing about Aunt Nettie, however, was that she didn't tell everything she knew. As her niece, I appreciated that. During the time Joe and I were an item of Warner Pier gossip, and I was living with Aunt Nettie, we knew we could count on her not to discuss our personal affairs.

Aunt Nettie probably knew all about Mozelle, but getting her to tell what she knew might be a challenge.

When I came in the back door of TenHuis Chocolade, Aunt Nettie was sitting in the break room having a late lunch. I draped my coat over the back of a chair and sat down beside her. I decided on a direct approach.

“OK,” I said. “Get ready for the third degree.”

“What about?”

“Mozelle French. Anything you know about her.”