The Chocolate Snowman Murders (12 page)

“I left the meeting early,” Jason said, “so I didn't get to hear all you and Joe had to report on the big murder investigation.”

“We didn't have anything startling to say—the Lake Knapp police are not confiding in us. The main thing, I guess, is that after I dumped Mendenhall at the motel, he may have tried to call someone in Warner Pier. I don't suppose he phoned you?”

“If he did, I didn't get the call.” Jason leaned close to me. “To tell the truth, George finished hanging the show about seven, and I went home and had a stiff scotch. DeWitt's here, you know.”

“No, I didn't know.”

DeWitt was the grown son of Jason's partner, Casey. “He doesn't come often, does he?”

“No, but this year he's determined to spoil my Christmas by making me be polite when I'm home as well as when I'm at work.” Jason grimaced. “Maybe I'm jealous. Anyway, I went to bed early and left DeWitt and Casey to their reminiscences. For one thing, I knew it was the last time I'd get any sleep for a couple of weeks.”

“I think everyone was trying to gather strength for the big event,” I said. “We're all afraid we'll have to work too hard—and afraid we won't.”

Jason and I shared a smile. If the Winter Festival promotion went over well, Warner Pier merchants would be exhausted. If it flopped, they'd be standing around with nothing to do. In the one case, we'd all be tired, but happy. In the other we'd be less tired, but extremely unhappy. So we were hoping for exhaustion.

A half hour later lots of the art patrons were moving into the restaurant dining room for dinner, so Hogan and Joe suggested the four of us avoid the crowd by going to Herrera's. Aunt Nettie and I readily agreed.

“Maybe Aunt Nettie can get some peace there,” I said. “She's the belle of the art show because of the success of her big snowman.” Aunt Nettie smiled modestly.

Herrera's is one of four restaurants owned by Mike Herrera, a person who affects our lives in lots of ways. First, since he's the mayor of Warner Pier, he's Joe's boss in his one-day-a-week job as city attorney. Second, Mike is the father-in-law of one of my best friends, Lindy Herrera. Third, he dates Joe's mom. Fourth, he's a fellow businessman in our community.

This combination of connections proves one thing: Warner Pier is definitely a small town. As the old joke says, our town is too little to have a village idiot; we all have to take turns.

But Mike is no idiot. He's an intelligent and practical businessman. He's also the first Hispanic to hold an elective office in Warner Pier. I like and respect him. And his restaurants have great food.

Lindy was on duty at Herrera's that night, seating guests and acting as manager—probably because Mike had to be at the WinterFest reception in his civic capacity. Her primary job is to manage Mike's catering operation.

When the four of us said we wanted to talk, Lindy gave us a table in the corner. Herrera's is a class operation. Even during the summer rush it's quiet, and it was ultraquiet that night, less than two weeks before Christmas. The background music actually stayed in the background.

The restaurant was wearing its winter decor. Herrera's is right down on the river, and in the summer the French doors are left open, and diners can have tables on the deck. In the winter the French doors are covered with shutters and are flanked by burgundy velvet draperies. Paintings in dark tones replace the pale beach scenes Mike hangs in summer.

I love all of Mike's restaurants because he's a Texas native like me, and at his places I can get iced tea all year-round. But Herrera's is the restaurant that makes me feel sophisticated and pampered.

Joe, Hogan, Aunt Nettie, and I all claimed that we had only lightly grazed the hors d'oeuvres table at the reception, so we ordered dinner, and Hogan made a little ritual out of choosing a bottle of wine for the table. Then Joe and I reported on Mendenhall's death and the day we'd had dealing with its effects.

Joe concluded with his deduction about Mendenhall's cell phone being missing.

Hogan nodded. “Sounds as if you're right, not that it means anything.”

I was surprised at his reaction. “It doesn't mean anything? But won't the Lake Knapp cops want to find out who took it?”

“Sure. It's evidence—just like anything that's missing from the room. But they can trace his calls without having the phone. And whom do you think he called?”

“George had given him a list of the WinterFest committee. I'd expect him to call one of them. Anyway, at the meeting before the reception, Joe and I urged anyone who heard from Mendenhall to contact this Sergeant McCullough.”

“Did anyone say they had talked to Mendenhall?”

“Not really. Mary Samson said she got a crank call from someone who sounded drunk. A lot of people said they hadn't been home last night. Most of them were out doing committee business—hanging the art show or at play rehearsal or something.”

“So if Mendenhall tried to call them, he probably couldn't reach anyone.” Hogan grinned. “What do you think he would have done next?”

I shrugged. “Gone out to eat? How would I know?”

Joe laughed. “I think I see what Hogan is getting at, Lee. And he's probably right.”

“Right about what?”

“Mendenhall. Picture the guy. You had raised his hopes for an exciting evening, then dumped him in a cheap motel. He couldn't reach anybody who was interested in coming to rescue him. So what would he want next?”

“I don't know what you're getting at, Joe.”

Aunt Nettie reached across the table and patted my hand. “Companionship, Lee.”

“But . . .” I finally caught on. “Oh. You mean paid companionship. With a sleazy desk clerk like that motel had, he wouldn't have had any trouble finding it. I'm sure that guy has a list of numbers to call.”

I'd left my run-in with the desk clerk out of the story earlier, so I recapped it, ending with Joe's crack about being late to Bible study.

Hogan laughed. “I wouldn't worry about that guy, Lee. I don't even think you need to worry about McCullough.”

“He certainly seemed to consider both Joe and me suspects.”

“McCullough may have wanted to give you that impression, but I have a feeling he was psyching you out. By now he will have called around—as a matter of fact this Detective Robertson called my office and left a message asking me to call him back tomorrow. McCullough will call the county attorney, or Mike Herrera, or other people down here. By tomorrow he'll know both you and Joe are considered solid citizens.”

“But, Hogan, that won't let us off the hook if he thinks either of us really did something to Mendenhall.”

“You're right. But the very fact that you're both on the WinterFest Committee means you're not the kind of people to bash a guy's head in and go off and leave him.”

“How does being on the committee prove that?”

“Lee, I've investigated a lot of killings in motels. They all involved drugs, booze, prostitution, or wild parties of some kind. When you find a guy dead in a motel, you don't automatically think he's the victim of some complicated plot involving people he hardly knows from a strange town. You think he checked in there to participate in activities he couldn't participate in at home—and those activities tend to involve criminals of some kind. Prostitutes, drug dealers—stuff like that.”

“That makes sense.”

“McCullough will be wringing information out of that desk clerk, and I expect that by now he's got a lead on any ‘companion' Mendenhall called. In fact, if he's any kind of a detective at all, he already knows which girls work those motels regularly.”

Joe frowned. “Then you think Mendenhall got caught in some kind of badger game?”

“It sounds possible, Joe. If I was in charge of the case, that's the line I'd follow first.”

Hogan's comments eased my mind quite a bit. Maybe Joe and I weren't the top suspects in the death of Mendenhall. The knot in my stomach relaxed, and the conversation turned back to the art show and the people who had been there. I asked Aunt Nettie about Sarajane's husband; was he really in jail?

“I hope he's still there,” she said. “He was awful. Nearly killed Sarajane the last time he beat her up.”

“I can't picture a person as hardheaded as Sarajane in an abusive relationship.”

“She didn't start out hardheaded, Lee. She had to become that way to survive. I admire her, particularly because her troubles made her care about other abused women.”

Aunt Nettie stopped talking and gave a sidelong glance at Hogan. He smiled and looked at the ceiling.

“Sarajane used to be a very active supporter of the Holland women's shelter,” Aunt Nettie said firmly. “Hogan, please pass the butter.”

When my dinner came I enjoyed my chicken in lemon sauce, my green salad, and my hard rolls. I ordered coffee instead of dessert, but I did take a bite of Joe's cheesecake.

By the time I finished the second cup of coffee, I could think about Mendenhall's death without feeling panicky. I told Hogan so.

“You've taken a big load off my mind, Hogan. After talking to you, I do not see how McCullough can be anything more than an annoyance to either Joe or me.”

Hogan nodded. “He may have some more questions, Lee, but unless he finds something else to link you to Mendenhall, I fail to see how he can give you any more trouble.”

“You've also relieved my mind about something else,” I said. “I knew neither Joe nor I killed Mendenhall. But because of the missing cell phone, I was afraid he called somebody on the committee, and that person went into Lake Knapp and killed him. Lots of people wouldn't know that taking the cell phone wouldn't mean the police couldn't trace Mendenhall's calls anyway. So I was regarding my fellow committee members with suspicion. Now I see that that's not likely either.”

I wrapped my paisley shawl around me and clutched my tiny purse as we got up to walk toward the entrance, where Herrera's provided a cloakroom. It was nearly nine thirty, so Lindy had abandoned her greeting spot near the front door. She evidently saw us leaving, because she appeared from somewhere behind the scenes and spoke.

“Is one of you the person with ‘The Hallelujah Chorus' on your cell phone?”

Joe and I both whipped our heads in her direction. “What do you mean?” I said.

“Someone's left their phone in the cloakroom, and it's been belting out ‘The Hallelujah Chorus' off and on for the past half hour.”

And, precisely on cue, a tinny electronic version of Handel's seasonal hit began to peal out. Joe and I nearly knocked each other flat getting through the door of the cloakroom.

Then I heard Hogan. “Don't touch it,” he said.

Joe and I walked along the hanging coats, listening carefully. It was Joe who reached out and plucked a full-length camel hair coat off its hook.

“The Hallelujah Chorus” was coming from its lefthand pocket.

I gasped. Then I yelled. “That's my coat!”

“Don't take the phone out,” Hogan said. “Let me preserve it some way.”

Joe carried the coat out and draped it over a nearby table. Then Hogan gently turned the pocket inside out. A standard cell phone—a popular brand in a popular color—fell onto the table.

“Oh, dear, Hogan,” Aunt Nettie said, “you had made Lee feel so much better, and now this.”

My stomach had tied itself into another knot, and I readily grasped what Aunt Nettie was talking about.

Hogan had said Joe and I were probably not serious suspects in Mendenhall's killing, but he'd added one condition. “Unless McCullough finds something else to link you to Mendenhall,” Hogan had said.

And now Mendenhall's missing cell phone had been found in my coat pocket.