The Chocolate Snowman Murders

by JoAnna Carl

  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.”

  Chapter 19

  Hogan 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.”

  “I don’t know Mozelle very well. I knew her mother better. She died ten years ago.”

  “So Mozelle is a native of Warner Pier?”

  “Oh, yes. Her father’s father had a dry goods store on Peach Street back when it was a dirt road. You can see it in historic pictures. Smith’s Mercantile.”

  “Smith. Was that Mozelle’s maiden name?”

  “Yes. Her mother was not from Warner Pier. She was from someplace in eastern Michigan.” Aunt Nettie smiled. “Anna Smith wanted to be the grande dame of Warner Pier.”

  “The way Mozelle is today?”

  “Something like that. But women’s clubs and activities had more significance in those days. You girls today—you get your satisfaction out of your jobs. Or I hope you do, because you all seem to work so hard. But Anna Smith—in a town like Warner Pier, the only outlet her generation had was clubs, organizations, and tea parties. Being a club and social leader counted.”

  “Has Mozelle ever had a job?”

  “Not that I know of. She was young when she married, and she plunged right into community organizations.”

  “She went to college.”

  “Yes, but that had more to do with social status than with learning a profession, at least as far as Mozelle’s mother intended. Anna was old-fashioned in her outlook, didn’t think women needed to worry about education. But she did recognize that if she wanted to see her daughter marry an educated man, she’d better have an educated daughter.”

  “Mozelle has a good mind and a tremendous amount of organizational ability. She could have had a successful career in business.”

  “Anna Smith wouldn’t have approved. She never let Mozelle off the leash when she was young.”

  “It’s hard to picture Mozelle on a leash.” I laughed. “That’s the kind of girl who goes wild when she gets away from home.”

  “Maybe that’s why her mother only let her go away a couple of years.”

  Aunt Nettie clamped her lips together tightly. I began to feel that she knew more than she was telling.

  “Come on, Aunt Nettie. Let me know the gossip about Mozelle. It might be important.”

  “Lee, anything I’ve ever heard was speculation. I’m not going to repeat it.”

  “What caused the speculation?”

  “Warner Pier doesn’t require a reason for speculation.”

  “I know that. And I appreciate you because you don’t usually speculate. But something must have happened to Mozelle sometime in her life that caused some talk.”

  “It was so minor. An example of how the gossip mill works.”

  “I won’t pass it around casually. What happened?”

  “It was stupid. I mean, as a cause of gossip.” Aunt Nettie sighed and gave in. “Mozelle left college in the middle of a semester.”

  I waited for the rest of the story. Then I realized that was all of it.

  “That was it? Warner Pier gossiped about that?”

  “Yes. Isn’t it silly? Anna Smith said Mozelle had almost had pneumonia, and that she had come home to recover her health. But she didn’t seem sick when she got home, and she never went back to college. The next year Mozelle married John French, and she’s been here ever since, following in her mother’s footsteps.”

  Aunt Nettie patted my hand. “So I can’t tell you a single scandalous thing about Mozelle. She’s just a bossy woman who likes to be a big frog in a small pond.”

  Our interview was over. My attempt to question Aunt Nettie had been a fiasco.

  Time to try something else. I went to my computer and Googled Mozelle. All I found out was that she was in the newspapers a lot as a spokesman for the Warner Pier WinterFest and as president of this or that west Michigan activity.

  I was still convinced that Mozelle must have at least known Dr. Fletcher Mendenhall when she attended Gerhard College. If their association was innocent—or even nonexistent—why hadn’t she mentioned it? When Mendenhall’s name first came up, wouldn’t the natural thing have been for her to say, “Is that the one who taught at Gerhard College? He left the semester before I enrolled.” Something.

  Maybe, I decided, I could approach the question from a different angle. Johnny Owens had known Mendenhall in later years, at Waterford College, but he’d hinted that he’d heard some scandalous story about Mendenhall’s earlier days. I could ask Johnny if he knew any more.

  I referred to my list of WinterFest phone numbers and called Johnny. He answered on the second ring.

  “Sorry to bother you, Johnny. Can you talk?”

  “Sure. It’ll help me put off a decision about the scale of this new piece.”

  “I wanted to know more about Mendenhall. You told us about the portrait of the trustee’s wife with the birthmark. Was he involved in any other commotion when you knew him?”

  “I think he’d learned to watch his step by then.”

  “By then?” I decided to make a wild and, as far as proof went, unfounded statement. “Do you mean after his problems at Gerhard College?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t know anything about that. Not really.”

  I almost clicked my heels. My unfounded statement had paid off. There had been a scandal when Mendenhall was at Gerhard.

  Johnny was still talking. “Gerhard closed during my freshman year. About fifty of the girls transferred to Waterford. After they found out Mendenhall was there, they told the art students about him and his harem. That had been five or ten years earlier, and I don’t think any of them had direct knowledge. So anything I know is a second- or thirdhand report.”

  “Just what were those thirdhand reports?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Johnny, I guessed that Mendenhall had some problems. I’d just like a few details. I promise to believe only half of what you tell me.”

  Johnny laughed. “The story was that some undergrad girl had moved in with Mendenhall. Her mother showed up and raised a stink.”

  “If the girl was living there willingly . . .”

  “She may have been, but her mother threatened to sue the college. Mendenhall didn’t have tenure, so he was fired.”

  I thought that over. “If he’d pressured the girl . . .”

  “I don’t really know any more, Lee. In fact, I don’t know that much for sure.” He paused. “I guess I can tell you the rest of the gossip. Supposedly another girl was living there, too.”

  “A ménage à trois?”

  “A funhouse for Mendenhall. And I repeat, this story may be completely unfounded.” Johnny chuckled. “Though the people who told about the situation had a nickname for the students involved. The flower girls. It seemed both of them were named for flowers. Rose and Lil
y. Something like that.”

  My heart sank. Let down again. Johnny’s gossip had made me sure Mozelle, at age nineteen or so, had been involved with Mendenhall. That would explain her refusal, thirty or more years later, to admit she had known him. And the description of the mother who raised such a stink that Mendenhall was fired—well, that was exactly how a small-town “grande dame” would work.

  But the “flower girl” name let Mozelle out. “Mozelle” was the name of a river and also of a wine. But as far as I’d ever heard, it was not the name of a flower. I thanked Johnny, then got out my dictionary and looked up the word “Mozelle” to make sure I was right. There was no mention of a flower by that name, but I learned that the river and the wine were spelled with an “s,” not a “z.”

  As Aunt Nettie walked by I said as much. “Did you know Mozelle’s mother couldn’t spell? The French river is spelled M-o-s-e-l-l-e, not M-o-z-e-l-l-e, the way Mozelle spells it.”

  “It would have been her great-grandmother who couldn’t spell. Mozelle was named for her two grandmothers.”

  “What’s her other name?”

  “Marguerite. Marguerite Mozelle Smith.”

  “She must have been in the third grade before she could spell all that.”

  Let down again. Unless . . . I grabbed the dictionary.

  “Marguerite,” it said, “same as a daisy (sense one).” I looked up daisy (sense one). That definition referred to the flower. It seemed Marguerite was either another name for a daisy or was a different type of daisy. Maybe both.

  Aha!

  Daisy might be a nickname for Marguerite. I could see a small-town girl going away to a “back east” college and wanting to use the more cosmopolitan Marguerite, rather than her Victorian-sounding, and misspelled, middle name. And from Marguerite to Daisy wouldn’t be a long step, if they both referred to the same flower.

  So it was possible that Mozelle had been one of the “flower girls.”

  I got so excited I called Hogan again. He didn’t sound happy to hear my voice.