The Chocolate Snowman Murders (9 page)

I hung up then and sat in the supermarket parking lot, thinking a moment, before I called Ramona. Mendenhall had had a complete list of the WinterFest committee members. Hmmm.

I pictured Mendenhall running down the sidewalk as I pulled out of the motel. He'd been furious. So, I wondered, after I disappeared, what would he have done?

A man that mad probably wouldn't just go back to his room and watch television, I decided. No, he'd do something, even if it was stupid. And since we knew he had a cell phone, and we could assume he'd brought his list of WinterFest committee members with him, and he was unlikely to know anybody else in Michigan—well, he probably got that list out and began calling people.

I had just reached that conclusion when the phone in my hand rang. It did not play “The Hallelujah Chorus,” but I jumped as if the noise was the last trumpet. I probably sounded scared to death when I answered. “Hello.”

“Lee, it's Ramona.”

“I just got your message.”

“Are you and Joe all right? Will you be back soon?”

“Yes. We had to make statements, and it took a lot of time, but I'm leaving Grand Rapids now.”

“We've called a special committee meeting for six thirty. I hope both of you can make it. It will be at the Warner Point Center office, right before the opening reception.”

The opening reception. Damn. After the day I'd had so far, the last thing I wanted to do was go to a big party where everybody I knew was going to want Joe and me to tell them all the details about finding a murdered man and explain how Fletcher Mendenhall came to be in the place where he was found.

My impulse was to tell Ramona I was going to go home, take a hot shower, and crawl in bed.

But logic asserted itself.

First, Joe and I simply couldn't hole up and refuse to see our friends. It might make us look guilty.

Second, if we went to the meeting and the party, the whole WinterFest committee ought to be there. Maybe we would find out more about Mendenhall and whether he had called anybody with the missing phone.

“Joe and I might be a bit late,” I said, “but we'll be there.”

I
got to the office at four o'clock and found a dozen e-mails waiting. I replied to one of them—a major customer who needed a rush order of eight-inch chocolate Christmas trees decorated with tiny chocolate toys. I promised that we'd make them the next day and overnight them to her. The rest of the messages dealt with Valentine's Day items or chocolates from our regular stock. They could wait, but it was still after five when I left for home to get ready for the WinterFest art show opening reception, the biggest event of Warner Pier's limited winter social season.

I'd called Joe as soon as I talked to Ramona, so he'd gone straight home and was already getting dressed when I got there. I jumped into our wonderful tiled shower and felt glad Joe had remodeled the old farmhouse bathroom as soon as we had moved in the previous summer. When I got out I was ready to climb into my best party dress—the knee-length champagne number I'd worn to get married the previous spring. It had long sleeves, so I could wear it around the calendar. I did drape a paisley shawl over my shoulders. The gold, brown, rust, and amber shades complemented the dress, I thought, and would make me look wintry. Joe was wearing his wedding outfit, too, though probably I was the only person who could tell it wasn't his regular lawyer suit. By six fifteen we were ready to knock 'em dead at the WinterFest opening.

Before we went out the door, I asked Joe a question. “Do we have any goal at this event?”

“Goal?”

“Yes. You're city attorney. You often need to drop a casual word to someone, something you want to say without making it look purposeful. I've known you to leave for the post office at seven in the morning so you could catch somebody ‘accidentally.' ”

“True.”

“So? What about tonight? Do we have a goal?”

“I always have people I need to talk to about city business. But as far as a goal for you and me, it's to let it be known that the Lake Knapp police want to talk to anybody who spoke with Mendenhall last night.”

“And to tell everybody we didn't do him in.”

“Right.”

“And to come home early. I'm exhausted.”

“Right again.” Joe kissed my cheek. “Let's go.”

We got into the van and drove to the Warner Point Conference Center.

The conference center has played an important part in our lives. Ten years earlier, the land it stood on had been acquired by Joe's first wife, famed defense attorney Clementine Ripley, as payment for a legal fee. The triangular property has Lake Michigan as one boundary and the Warner River as a second. All that waterfront makes it one of the most valuable pieces of property within a hundred miles.

On it Clementine Ripley built a showplace home, actually a series of stone buildings, simple in design and linked by glassed-in walkways. Then she stained the woodwork and floors stark black, and had the walls painted stark white. The result, to my way of thinking, was rooms that looked so cold they were like walk-in freezers even when the temperature was ninety degrees outside.

Joe never talks much about his life as Clementine Ripley's husband, but he did tell me she didn't consult him about the house. Or maybe he didn't show any interest when he
was
consulted. Anyhow, he only admits having input on the boathouse.

The house seems to have been one of the final nails in the coffin of the Woodyard-Ripley marriage. Joe hated it, and he was beginning to realize that his original feelings for his wife had been based on a sort of crazy heroworship, an admiration for her abilities as a defense attorney, rather than a true estimate of her character. At the same time Clementine was apparently realizing the young lawyer she had married wasn't willing to approve her questionable ethics and didn't like her spend-likethere's-no-tomorrow lifestyle. The divorce was amicable in the sense that they both wanted out.

A year later Clementine died without changing a will made while she and Joe were married, and Joe discovered that he had inherited her estate—including the Warner Point house. The inheritance only added to the nightmare the marriage had been; Joe immediately made it known he didn't want her money. Then he discovered the truth—there
was
very little money. The Warner Point house and Clementine's apartment in Chicago were heavily mortgaged, and an adviser Clementine had trusted had made off with most of her investments. It took Joe two years to get the estate straightened out, and it took two years and all the money he could get together to pay off the Warner Point property's mortgage.

And as soon as he'd done that, Joe gave the property to the Village of Warner Pier, to be used as a conference center. He couldn't do it anonymously, since everybody knew who owned it, but he declined any public recognition of his gift.

Now the property was gradually becoming useful to the city. Jason Foster had leased the main building and opened a snazzy restaurant, including rooms for special events. It was drawing weddings and smaller banquets from all over western Michigan. An experienced bedand-breakfast operator was about to build an adjoining inn. There was talk of putting up an outdoor pavilion for summer events.

And Joe was gradually becoming able to enter the property without visibly shuddering.

He dropped me at the wide stone steps leading to the main entrance, since they had been thoroughly cleared of snow. Even the giant snowman was gone for the evening; a volunteer would be wearing the suit for the art show opening. But the building looked festive, with swags of greenery, tiny lights, and red bows everywhere.

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.”