The Chocolate Snowman Murders (16 page)

Reverend Pinkney had been pointed out to me several times by several different people, usually with the words, “He's
my
preacher!” The identification always featured a heavy emphasis on the “my.” Occasionally the report ended with the word “meant.” As in, “I'm so glad I found
his
church. It was meant.”

The “my preacher” and “his church” comments had led me to believe the Non-Denominational Fellowship Church centered on Reverend Pinkney. I'm not an expert on theology, but I always distrust churches built as personality cults. And the secondhand reports of his sermons seemed to reflect the view that if we do good and believe the correct theology, God will reward us with prosperity and happiness. This doesn't jibe with my observation that the most loving and faithful people around still have lots of troubles and woes. They usually just cope with them better. Anyway, I didn't think I'd fit into “his” church.

So I pretended to study my computer screen, but I confess that I was checking out Reverend Pinkney as he walked across the shop. He was a handsome man of around thirty, tall, with dark hair that had been expertly cut. He wore a puffy winter jacket that looked like the real thing—down stuffing rather than polyester—and he was carrying a large file folder. He smiled broadly as he spoke to the girl at the counter. I assumed he was buying chocolates. Then I realized that the counter girl was gesturing toward my office.

She called out, “Lee! Reverend Pinkney wants to talk to you.”

I motioned to him and tried to smile. “Come in!” I kept my seat, determined that I would treat the fabled preacher as an ordinary caller. In fact, maybe I could pump him a bit—get some information about a couple of his parishioners, Mozelle and Amos Hart.

Reverend Pinkney came into my cubbyhole, smiling a toothy smile and holding out a hand. “Hi,” he said. “I'm Chuck Pinkney, and I want to ask a favor.”

I shook his hand. “What do you need?”

The Reverend Pinkney opened the large folder he was holding and pulled out a flyer for his church. “Could we post one of these in your window? We're having special services during WinterFest.”

I looked at the flyer. Probably some church member had produced it on a home computer, but it was still slickly done, with four-color printing on good paper. It featured a photograph of the church with a family of happy snowmen on the front lawn. Not real snowmen. Plywood snowmen. Or maybe snow people, because two of them were women. And each fake snow person held a Bible. I could tell their books were Bibles, because they held them clutched to their snowy chests so that gold lettering reading “Holy Bible” was visible.

I usually turn down requests to hang stuff in our windows. I hate to see a shop window so cluttered that passersby can't see what's inside, and we already had two WinterFest posters up. As a committee member I hadn't felt I could refuse to hang those. But being cooperative might help me pump Reverend Pinkney.

Reverend Pinkney—Chuck—smiled winningly. “It will only be for ten days. The services are this Sunday and the next.”

“Sure,” I said. “You can put it up. Do you need tape?”

He produced a tape dispenser from his pocket. “I'm all set. And I'm glad to meet you, Lee. You're on the WinterFest committee, right?”

“I handle the money. Nothing creative. But I believe a couple of our committee members are in your congregation—Amos Hart and Mozelle French.”

“Yes, Amos has been holding his chorale rehearsals in our church.”

“The committee appreciates your support, Reverend Pinkney.”

“Chuck. Please. And it's not my support.” He grinned, displaying plenty of that old S.A., and I saw that his sex appeal might be one of the attractions of his church to the women members.

“It's not your support?”

“Use of the building is up to the church board, not the minister. They make the decisions.”

“I hope that means the board has to come down in the evenings to let the singers in and out for rehearsal instead of sticking you with the job.”

Reverend Pinkney—Chuck—laughed. “Amos has a key.”

“He's on the staff, isn't he?”

“Yes and no. We can only afford to pay him in the summer, when our choir—and our congregation—is much larger than it is this time of the year. Our year-round staff is only me and two part-timers, a secretary and a custodian.”

“He talks as if he's pretty active down there.”

“Yes, Amos is on the board, and every Wednesday night he's there putting the choir through its paces.”

“I guess he's been there even more lately, getting the chorale ready for its performance.”

“I think they've rehearsed every night.”

Had Amos been at the church the night Mendenhall was killed? “Oh? Did they rehearse Tuesday night?”

“I'm not sure. I don't think the chorus was there in the evening. The soloists were practicing Tuesday afternoon, so I got a preview.”

“How did the soloists sound?”

“Great! Amos is a very good director, and he's recruited some fine singers. He's one of our church's most active laymen.”

“It sounds as if Mozelle is also an active member.”

“Definitely! Mozelle is currently our board chair.” Chuck flashed those teeth again. “Do you and your husband have a church home, Mrs. Woodyard?”

“Please call me Lee, Chuck. And, no, we haven't quite settled that question, since we were brought up in different denominations.”

Chuck responded with a one-paragraph wrap-up of the advantages of his church to couples like us, even producing a second, smaller flyer with the church's meeting times and phone numbers. It seemed Joe and I could each keep our core beliefs intact at Warner Pier Non-Denominational Fellowship. The Reverend Chuck Pinkney did his presentation well. He used words like “contemporary” and “spirit-filled.” His brief description was obviously well-rehearsed.

When he stopped for a breath, I stood up. “That's interesting. Now, let's see about hanging those flyers.”

Chuck smiled, but his smile had grown a little stiff. Had I snubbed his spiel? I hadn't intended to be rude. Trying to act friendly, I escorted him to the front of the shop and selected a spot for his flyer. He taped it in place, and I turned toward him, ready to shake hands and end our little interview.

Chuck took my hand, but instead of saying good-bye, he frowned and lowered his voice. “Mrs. Woodyard. Lee. I feel that I must say one thing to you.”

“Certainly.”

He seemed to find it hard to get the words out, but he finally managed. “Since you don't have a minister of your own . . . If you or your husband should find yourselves in need . . . I mean . . . Well . . . If I can be of service, please don't hesitate to call me.” Then he almost ran out the front door.

I stood looking after him, perplexed. What was eating the man? Why did he think Joe and I might need pastoral care?

Then, behind me, I heard a whisper. “She's the one the waitress was talking about,” it said.

I turned to see two women who were looking at everything in the shop except me. One was a bleached blonde and the other an overdyed brunette. I'd never seen either of them before. Tourists, I thought. Tourists drawn to Warner Pier for the WinterFest.

Had they been whispering about me? It didn't seem possible.

Then one of them—the blonde—sneaked a peek in my direction. When she saw me looking at her, she jumped and looked panicky.

They
had
been talking about me.

I slunk back to my office. Some waitress had told them about me. I was “the one.” I didn't have to ask why I was being singled out.

I was the murder suspect. The probable killer.

And the Reverend Chuck Pinkney thought I might need pastoral care. I eyed his flyer. Had he really wanted it in the window? Or had it been an excuse to come in and offer his services? Maybe he wanted a dramatic confession, one he could describe to television reporters.

I resisted the temptation to go back out into the shop and tear the flyer down. I turned back to my computer screen and pretended to read what was up on it.

But if I'd had a tablecloth handy, I'd have chewed it to shreds.

T
hat may have been the lowest moment in my whole life. As I sat there at the computer, I couldn't think of a lower one. I even ran a collection of low moments through my brain, trying to think of which was the worst. Only one came close.

When I left my first husband—Rich Godfrey—I didn't take my clothes, jewelry, or car. I even left behind the sheets and towels and dishes and pots and pans. And my checkbook and credit cards. I took nothing but a few clothes left from the time before I married Rich, and I talked my mom into letting me stay with her.

I left Rich because I had realized that he believed I'd married him for his money. I left everything behind because, naively, I thought that if I showed him I could live without the things he'd given me, he would understand that I married him because I loved him. I thought—like an idiot—that when Rich understood that I loved him for himself, not his money, our marriage would be magically healed. He would no longer regard me as something he owned, but as a life partner.

Ha.

What I came to understand—on my own; I didn't have the money or the time for a therapist—was that Rich didn't separate the objects he owned from himself. When I rejected his possessions, when I declined to be one of those possessions, I rejected him. My gesture left our marriage irretrievably broken.

The truth of the situation became clear to me a week after I'd moved out. The only job I could find on a moment's notice was waiting tables in a Mexican restaurant, and some of Rich's friends saw me there. One night shortly before closing, I got a phone call from the wife of one of them.

“Lee! It's Marilyn. Is it true that you left Rich for . . .” She named a name prominent in Dallas. I'll call him John Cowboy. As in Dallas Cowboy.

I was as stunned as if I'd been run over by the Cowboy line. I couldn't even answer. She finally spoke again. “Lee? Are you there?”

“I've never even met John Cowboy,” I said. “Where did you hear that?”

“Well . . . Oh, you know . . .”

“I'm not dating anybody. Does Rich think I am?”

“He heard you were talking to John Cowboy at the restaurant.”

“What does John Cowboy look like?”

“You don't even know what he looks like?”

“No. I never pay much attention to football. If I talked to John Cowboy, it was because he was a customer. And I've got to hang up now. One of my tables wants a check.”

“Okay, Lee. But listen . . .” Marilyn lowered her voice. “Watch your step.”

I didn't figure out her comment until a strange car parked down the street from my mother's place that night. Rich had hired private detectives. I was under surveillance.

He apparently thought that I wouldn't have left one wealthy man until I had another on the string. My dramatic gesture of leaving everything behind, meant to convince Rich that I wasn't interested in his money, had confused and infuriated him. So he was starting gossip about me. Hurtful gossip.

All I could hope was that John Cowboy would hear the rumors and knock Rich's block off.

I had always thought that was the lowest moment in my life. But now I'd reached an even lower one. Then I was the object of gossip about my marriage and my love life. Now people apparently were gossiping about whether I had killed two people.

I sat at my computer and had a real pity party. Poor little me. People were saying ugly things about me. Untrue things.

I guess I looked as if I'd had a shock, because Aunt Nettie came into my office. “What's wrong, Lee?”

I blew my nose and told her about the bleached blonde and the dyed brunette. People were talking about me.

“My grandma down in Texas would have said I feel so bad I ought to go out in the backyard and eat worms,” I said.

“That's too bad.” Aunt Nettie leaned toward me. “Do you want me to make you some chocolate worms?”

After I blinked a couple of times, I began to laugh.

Aunt Nettie spoke again. “The ground's frozen too hard to dig up regular worms, but I could make you some chocolate ones if you think eating a few would help the situation. Milk chocolate would probably look the most realistic.”

“Okay, Aunt Nettie. I get the point.”

“Do you? Lee, in this situation with Mendenhall—have you done anything you're ashamed of?”

“No, I haven't.”