The Chocolate Snowman Murders (17 page)

“I didn't think so. I think you did the best you could.”

“So I'd better forget the Warner Pier gossips, right?”

“Right. You have more important things to worry about than what two tourists say.” Aunt Nettie gave the word “tourists” that Warner Pier spin, a little undertone that puts them in their places. And their places are three steps behind locals—people who live and work in Warner Pier year-round—and two steps behind summer people—people who own cottages and whose families come to our area every year.

She got up. “So, I assume you and Joe will be at the play opening tonight.”

“Oh, yes. I'll face gossip and exhaustion and amateur theatricals, but I'll be there. And so will Joe, even if I have to hog-tie him and throw him in the back of the pickup.”

“You may have to pick me up. Hogan will probably be busy detecting.”

I got back to work feeling less downhearted. At least Aunt Nettie didn't feel sorry for me.

After all, I reminded myself, when I realized that Rich had sicced private eyes on me, I had reacted aggressively. I found a lawyer who was willing to represent me on the chance that he'd collect a fee from Rich. Then I moved back to the town where I was born, Prairie Creek. My dad knew all the sheriff's deputies and town policemen, and Prairie Creek is so small that strangers stand out. My dad's pals ran the private eyes out of town fast.

After my lawyer threatened Rich with a slander suit, we were able to have a semicivilized divorce, though my attorney was mad because I continued to refuse a financial settlement. Rich was mad about it, too, if the truth is to be told, because he wanted to brag to his friends about how big a financial hickey I had given him. Rich did pay my lawyer, and in the end, I did keep some of my clothes—the ones I could wear to the office. I sent the rest to the resale shop and donated the proceeds to a women's shelter.

Reacting aggressively had worked that time, and I'd better use the same plan this time, I decided. I resolved to intensify the effort to check on which WinterFest committee members had received calls from Mendenhall.

I decided to talk to Sarajane, just casually. For that, I needed an excuse, and I thought I had one.

I pulled out the file that held current invoices and leafed through them. Aha. My memory was correct. On Monday Sarajane had called in an order for two pounds of crème de menthe bonbons (“The formal after-dinner mint.”) for the Peach Street Bed and Breakfast Inn. Sarajane put one of these on each of her guests' pillows when she turned down the beds.

A check of the storeroom found the bonbons still sitting there in their box; she hadn't picked them up yet. I felt sure she'd appreciate it if I dropped them off on my way home.

Although Sarajane's bed and breakfast bore the name of one of Warner Pier's main streets, it wasn't in our downtown area. It was at the far end of Peach Street, in a secluded and heavily wooded area. There was plenty of room for a parking lot, a spacious terrace where she served summer guests wine and cheese, and even a gazebo with a chaise for lazy afternoons with a book. The inn was cozy in winter, too, when it featured a wonderful fireplace. In fact, it might be even better then, because the big tourist rush ended with Labor Day, so winter guests could have it almost to themselves. Except—or so we hoped—during the Winter Arts Festival.

The inn was decorated with country-style knickknacks. It had only a few guest suites, and Sarajane was able to run it by herself, if she needed to. The inn was so successful that she could sell out and retire to Florida any day she wanted to.

I left the office a little early, and it was just beginning to get dark as I turned into the gravel drive. I saw that Sarajane had joined in the snowman theme. Two round white figures on the porch wore battered hats and held brooms. I parked at the side of the big Victorian house, collected the crème de menthe bonbons, and followed the walk around to the back entrance. The back porch light wasn't on, but I had plenty of light to get up the steps.

I knocked at the door and was hit by spotlights. Four brilliant outdoor lights were trained at the back porch, and Sarajane—at least I assumed it was her—had turned them on.

I saw that the door was centered by a peephole, so I stepped back, making sure I was in view.

I heard scrabbling sounds from inside, and a voice hissed. I couldn't understand what it was saying. Still Sarajane didn't open the door. More hissing. Finally the door opened a crack.

“Hello, Lee,” Sarajane said. “I wasn't expecting anyone.”

“Sorry to surprise you.” I held up the box of chocolates. “I was trying to get everything cleared away before the weekend rush started. So I'm delivering your chocolates.”

“Thank you.” Sarajane opened the door slightly and reached out for the box.

She wasn't going to invite me in. Darn. How could I question her while standing on the back porch? I thought quickly. “Sarajane, you served the most delicious spiced tea at your Thanksgiving open house. Do you give out that recipe?”

“I'll give you a jar of the mix.” She opened the door, and I saw a back hall furnished with a bench, handy for pulling on snow boots, a hall tree hung with jackets, and a chest of drawers which could be used for storing scarves and gloves.

“You make that spiced tea from a mix?”

“I make the mix myself.” Sarajane moved from the back hall to the kitchen. She opened a pantry door and took out a half-pint jar filled with powder. All the while she described what was in it—instant tea and lemonade among other things. She turned on all the lights in the kitchen. And she talked volubly about the spiced tea.

I had the feeling she was inviting me to take a look around. Why? Why had she hesitated to let me in, then made a show of letting me see the kitchen?

I had to get down to the real reason I came. “Sarajane, you tickled my curiosity, you know.”

“How?”

“You mentioned that you'd made an ‘emergency trip' to Wal-Mart Tuesday night. I wondered if you saw George there.”

“George. George Jenkins?” Her voice had no inflection at all.

“Yes. He went to Wal-Mart Tuesday night, too. Maybe you ran into him.”

“No. It's a big place. Though I admit it's rare that I go there without meeting someone from Warner Pier.” Sarajane glanced at the clock on the wall over the sink.

I'd obviously outstayed my welcome. I thanked her for the spiced tea mix and moved toward the back door. “I hope you're enjoying your friend's visit.”

“I'm sorry not to introduce her to you, Lee. She's been ill. She wanted some peace and quiet.”

I had my hand on the door handle before I noticed that the top drawer in the dresser was open by several inches. And inside I could see a pistol.

I went out the door and down the steps and into the van in a flash. Then I laughed at myself. Sarajane had already told me she slept with a pistol beside her bed. Her B and B was in a lonely area. If she kept a weapon beside her bed at night, she'd probably also want it in a handy place when she wasn't in bed.

But why did she feel she had to have it available when she opened the back door? It wasn't dark yet. All she had to do was look out the side window to see me get out of my van. I didn't understand it. And who was the mysterious guest?

Joe had never answered my messages, but we got home almost at the same moment. He already knew about the skillet being found in the van. He'd spent the afternoon discussing that skillet with VanDam and McCullough.

Which meant he was in an even worse mood than I was. When I mentioned the play, he growled.

I tried psychology on him. “You can stay home if you want to,” I said. “I'll pick up Aunt Nettie. We'll go together.”

“You can't possibly want to go to an amateur play tonight.”

“No, I don't want to, but I'm afraid I have to.” I described the “She's the one” episode.

Joe's face screwed up. “Damn! Lee, I'm sorry.”

“I gave myself a major pity party. Cried two Kleenexes sodden. Then Aunt Nettie told me to buck up, that I hadn't done anything wrong, and I shouldn't act as if I had. I decided she was right. If I creep around as if I'm afraid of talk, it will only make the whole situation worse.”

Joe kissed me. He almost always knows the right thing to do. “You're right. We both need to go to that play. Have I got time for a shower?”

“If you don't bask too long. I'll get the dinner on the table. Then you can do the dishes while I get dressed. We need to pick up Aunt Nettie at seven thirty.”

Aunt Nettie, Joe, and I were in the Warner Pier High School auditorium ten minutes before curtain time.

The WinterFest play was a community project, not a high school function, which was why the WinterFest budget included the auditorium rental we were trying to get underwritten. Warner Pier High School's auditorium is like every other high school auditorium in the country, I guess. The Warner Pier teams are called the Wolves, and the auditorium was decorated with that in mind. Big plywood cutouts with fierce, howling wolves painted on them usually flanked the stage.

Maggie had hidden the howling wolves with even larger plywood snowmen, and she'd turned the stage itself into a winter wonderland with rolls of cotton batting and glitter. A quaint chalet was painted on the backdrop.

No one openly shunned Joe and me as we came in. In fact, many of our friends clustered around us. I couldn't tell if they were defiant of public opinion, curious, or sincerely glad to see us.

Mozelle and Amos, openly together, came in right behind us, reminding me that I hadn't checked on their stories for Tuesday night. I'd given up all pretense at subtlety. So, once Amos wandered off to hang up their coats, I bluntly questioned Mozelle.

“Did Mendenhall call you Tuesday night?”

“I told you, Lee. My number wasn't on the list Mendenhall had.”

“Oh, that's right. What were you doing that evening?”

Mozelle looked at me coldly. “I was in Chicago. I had dinner with some friends and spent the night at the Ritz-Carlton. It wasn't until the next morning that my business was resolved, and I decided I would be able to return for the WinterFest events.”

“How about last night? Did you and Amos go out to dinner?”

“We did not. We'd both had plenty to eat at the reception. We went to Amos' house to listen to a wonderful new CD he had. The London Philharmonic.”

She walked away.

We had to go to our seats then, and Maggie's play began. It was a whodunit, with characters drawn from classic mysteries—the stiff colonel, the innocent young girl, the rich uncle, the naive priest, and a half dozen others—all isolated in an Alpine ski lodge in a snowstorm. At the end of the first act, the characters were being terrorized by an obviously fake snowman whose head looked more like a marshmallow than a snowball and who lumbered around the stage on giant shoes like a clown might wear. Maggie hadn't been able to borrow one of the “real” snowmen mascots' outfits.

It was good fun, the kind of look at fictional murder that makes real-life crime seem less frightening. I felt better when we got up to stretch at the intermission. Then Joe wandered off, Aunt Nettie stopped to talk to Sarajane Harding, and I came face-to-face with Amos Hart.

He was wearing a bow tie embellished with tiny snowmen. He waved a plastic cup holding what looked like cranberry punch. “Very tasty.”

“I'm sure it is,” I said. “But I think I'll skip.” I hate most kinds of fruit punch, but there was no need to explain that. Instead I bulled right in with my questions. “Amos, you never said—did Mendenhall call you Tuesday night?”

“I wasn't home, and I don't have an answering machine.”

“Oh? Were you with Mozelle?” It wouldn't do any harm to check on Mozelle's alibi.

“No. She was in Chicago.”

“Oh, yes! Now I remember. I've been asking so many people about Tuesday night that I get all mixed up.”

“I did go by her house, because I'd promised to feed her cat. But that was before the chorus rehearsal.”

“I thought the chorus rehearsed Tuesday afternoon.”

Amos smiled patiently. “The soloists rehearsed Tuesday afternoon. We had sectional rehearsals Tuesday night.”

Then he reached over and patted my hand. “Now, Lee, I know how worried you are about all this business with Mendenhall, about the tragedy of Mary Samson's death. But you'd be so much better off if you'd simply trust in the Lord.”

I bit my tongue and did not say that I'd always heard that the Lord helped those who helped themselves.

Amos wasn't waiting for me to say anything, however. He went right on. “It's very hard for us to understand the Lord's will, but everything that happens is for the best.”

Everything? Did that include Mary Samson's murder?

“Someday, maybe years from now, you'll see that everything happens for a reason. We have to accept the Lord's will.”

That was when I blew up. “Amos,” I said, “when I went to Sunday school, they told me that murder is definitely against God's will. ‘Thou shalt not kill,' remember? You can accept what's happened to Mendenhall and to Mary Samson if you want to. But do not blame it on God. Personally, I intend to do all I can to see that the killer is brought to justice.”

I resisted the temptation to snatch Amos' cranberry punch out of his hand and pour it down his shirtfront. Instead I turned and walked away. Luckily I found Joe and attached myself to his arm. Joe always has a calming effect on me.

Then I noticed that he was talking with the Reverend Chuck Pinkney.