The Chocolate Snowman Murders

by JoAnna Carl

  “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.”

  German Chocolate Cake—yum, yum!

  One of America’s favorite desserts—Baker’s German’s Sweet Chocolate Cake—is neither “Baker’s” nor “German’s.”

  Commonly known as “German Chocolate Cake,” this is a delicately flavored light chocolate cake made with a particular type of sweetened cooking chocolate. Between each of its three layers and on top is a caramel icing packed with pecans and coconut.

  The “Baker’s” in the cake’s name came from the chocolate manufacturer, not because it’s designed for the exclusive use of bakers.

  The “German’s” is from Sam German, a Baker’s employee who came up with the sweet cooking chocolate in 1852.

  At that time most chocolate was still used for making beverages, but the Baker’s company published a twelve-page booklet of baking recipes in 1870. German Chocolate Cake, however, was not in the booklet.

  German Chocolate Cake was apparently invented by a Texas woman who submitted it to a Dallas newspaper in 1957. She named the cake after the chocolate she used to make it, and it swept the nation.

  Chapter 13

  There 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 chocol
ate 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.”

  I folded my arms and closed my mouth. I tried to give Gordon Hitchcock and his cameraman my stoniest stare. Unfortunately, my eyes began to fill up, which pretty much ruined the effect. I turned away and walked toward the workshop. For the first time I realized Aunt Nettie was standing in the doorway.

  I was afraid she would give me a hug or do something else to try to comfort me. And that would look as if we were putting on a show, exploiting Mary Samson’s death just the way I had accused Gordon Hitchcock of doing.

  But Aunt Nettie didn’t even look at me as I passed her. She walked toward the television reporters. “This is a place of business,” she said calmly. “My niece and I are extremely upset about the death of our friend, but we have to carry on our business. Please leave.”

  I don’t know if Gordon Hitchcock had any shame or not, but his cameraman apparently did. He lowered his weapon—I mean, his camera. “Come on, Gordie,” he said. Then he went out the front door. I guess Gordon followed him. I didn’t look back.

  I kept walking until I was in our break room. I grabbed up a Kleenex from the box Aunt Nettie kept next to the microwave and wiped my eyes.

  Then I thought about Joe. I had to warn him. Joe had a dread of the press, a reaction to the way the tabloids had covered his first marriage and the way they’d covered his divorce. He definitely would not like Gordon Hitchcock and his cameraman, or any other reporter, to drop in at his boat shop.

  I snatched up the telephone, called Joe, and warned him about my run-in with the Grand Rapids television newsman.

  “It’s that blankety-blank McCullough,” I said. “He threatened to ‘throw me to the wolves.’ And that’s just what he’s done.”

  “You’re probably right,” Joe said. “I guess we’d both better hide out today.”

  “Should we ask Webb what he recommends?”

  He thought a moment. “Let me think up a press release. I’ll call you right back. And I’ll let Webb know what’s going on, but we might not want to tell the general public we’ve consulted a lawyer.”

  I hung up and began moving my theater of operations from my glass-walled office near the front door to our more secluded break room. Luckily my laptop was at the office, so I was able to move it to the back of the building and still access my e-mail, accounting files, and other computer business from a spot where people entering the shop could not see me.

  I was almost set up when Joe called back. He dictated a simple press release, in which the two of us denied any additional knowledge about the killings of Mendenhall and Mary Samson and pledged all possible cooperation to the “proper authorities.” I typed it out and printed up twenty-five copies. We put a stack in the shop, and the counter girls were instructed to hand them out to anybody who came in with a notebook or camera. They were told that I was unavailable to anybody who wasn’t local. Dolly Jolly and Aunt Nettie were assigned to answer the telephone.

  Then, marooned in the back room, I tried to get my work done without interfering with the coffee breaks and lunch hours of our staff. On a Saturday later in the winter, of course, we would have had only a few people there. Because it was the Christmas rush and the week of WinterFest, we had about twenty. I was definitely in their way.

  Joe snuck in the back door at noon with two salami sandwiches and some potato chips. While we ate I worked on my chart of the WinterFest committee members and their whereabouts at the time Fletcher Mendenhall was killed. It wasn’t very conclusive. Only Ramona, Amos Hart, and George Jenkins appeared to have alibis, and they could prove their whereabouts only during the early part of the evening.

  “And Ramona and George claim they were together when Mary was killed,” I said. “That doesn’t exactly clear them.”

  “Why not?”

  “If McCullough can think you and I colluded to kill two people, why should they be exempt from the same suspicion?”

  “They’re not married to each other.”

  “True. But it seems ridiculous to suspect anybody on this committee of doing anything violent. So we might as well suspect Ramona and George. Neither of them has a real alibi. They’re no sillier than anyone else in the roles of suspects.”

  Joe laughed. “You’re right. The whole situation is ridiculous. Mendenhall was killed because he was a drunk? Mary because she was too shy to open her mouth? It’s stupid.”

  “Actually, I question Amos Hart’s alibi, as well.”

  “Why?”

  “He says he was rehearsing the choir. But Reverend Chuck Pinkney says they had rehearsal in the afternoon. He didn’t mention the evening. Amos claims the soloists rehearsed in the afternoon and the whole choir in the evening. He says they had sectional rehearsals.”

  “What are sectional rehearsals?”

  “That’s when the sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses practice their parts without the other sections present.”

  “Oh. That would be easy to check. Call Lindy.” Well, yeah. My best friend was a member of the WinterFest Chorus. She answered her cell phone on the first ring. Yes, she said, the WinterFest chorus had practiced in the evening. And, yes, Amos Hart had been there.

  “Matilda VanDrusen led the sopranos,” she said. “But Amos was around. I know I saw him just after I got there.”

  I hung up and repeated what she’d said to Joe. “By the time Amos led the rehearsal and fed Mozelle’s cat, his eve
ning is pretty much taken up. It would be after ten o’clock before he could get up to Lake Knapp. What time did Mendenhall die?”

  “I don’t think the medical examiner has made a firm report yet, but ten o’clock seems pretty late. How about Mozelle? You didn’t say anything about her.”

  “She wasn’t on the list of WinterFest committee members, so Mendenhall didn’t have her phone number. Apparently there’s no call to her number on his cell phone. Plus, she says she was in Chicago. I guess Hogan or VanDam has checked up on that. Not that I wouldn’t love to destroy her alibi.”

  Joe laughed. “I guess we all like to see pride taking a fall.”

  “Yep. But if Mozelle wasn’t in Chicago, it will be up to Hogan to find it out. I guess all of this is for Hogan and Alex VanDam to find out. I’d better trust them to handle it.”

  We left it like that. I felt quite helpless about the whole situation. Here I was, hiding in the back room of TenHuis Chocolade, afraid to answer the phone, dreading going home—where Joe and I could easily be surrounded by the press.

  I kept trying to get through that ghastly day. It was hard to do routine chores when I would rather have had a nervous breakdown. But I kept on keeping on, and eventually the sun went down, and the day ended. The chocolate ladies took off their hairnets and went home at four thirty. The counter girls locked the front door at five thirty. They pulled the shades, so I was able to leave my exile in the break room to help them clean the shop and prepare it for Sunday, when we would open at eleven a.m. We restocked the counter, swept the floor, and washed the fingerprints off the showcases. A few people knocked at the door, but we ignored them.

  Then the girls got their coats, I unlocked the front door and opened it a crack so one of them could take a look outside to make sure the coast was clear before they sprinted for their cars. As the door opened, a folded piece of paper fell inside.