The Chocolate Snowman Murders (21 page)

I
guess the sack of chocolates saved me. If I hadn't thrown it, the snowman wouldn't have stumbled. If he hadn't stumbled, he would have come right in that door after me.

But he did stumble, and I was able to kick the door shut before he could get to it.

I heard the lock click. I was inside, behind a heavy metal door, and the snowman was outside. I lay on the floor and shook.

But I didn't lie there more than a few seconds. There was always the chance that that snowman could get inside, too. Warner Point was lined with windows, some of them easy to kick out.

I crawled across the entrance hall and found the door to the dining room. Once inside, I stood up and felt my way toward the kitchen, bumping into tables and chairs in the dark.

Then an unearthly clamor broke out.

For a moment I thought Lake Michigan had developed a tsunami, it was on its way inland, and somebody was sounding the alarm. Then I realized the Warner Point burglar alarm had gone off.

I had no idea of the code needed to turn it off, and I didn't even know where to find the magic keypad that would do that. But I didn't care. The burglar alarm would call the security company, and the security company would call Jason and the Warner Pier Police Department, which was what I was trying to do anyway. Someone would be there to turn the darn thing off soon. And in the meantime, the clanging might scare the snowman away.

I kept feeling my way across the room, with the alarm ringing madly. I was sure there would be a light switch near the door into the kitchen, and I was right. I turned the lights on in the dining room and the kitchen. The lighted rooms were the most beautiful sight I'd seen in forever. Then I brought a dining room chair into the kitchen, because I figured the person who answered the alarm would come to the back door. And I sat down, with the alarm buffeting me with sound.

Soon I saw headlights flash outside the kitchen window. Someone had arrived. I considered opening the back door and coming out with my hands up. But that seemed a little risky; I didn't want to escape the ghastly snowman only to be shot by some trigger-happy security guard who thought I was a burglar.

When a face appeared at the back window, I was relieved to see that it was topped by a furry hat with a badge on the front. I kept sitting in my chair, with my hands in plain sight. In a moment the door opened, and Jerry Cherry, one of Warner Pier's patrolmen, came in.

I could have hugged his neck, but I just waved.

He looked at me and shook his head slowly. Then he referred to a notebook and went into what looked like a broom closet. In a few seconds, the raucous clang of the alarm stopped, and Jerry came out.

“Well, Lee,” he said, “what are you up to this time?”

“It's a long story, Jerry, but if you saw a great big snowman loping across the drifts as you drove in, I'm willing to file a complaint accusing him of scaring the stuffing out of me.”

I quickly told Jerry that I'd been chased by someone wearing the head of the snowman that decorated the Warner Point entrance porch.

“He tried to hit me with that snow shovel the snowman carries,” I said. “When I managed to get inside, he must have run off. I expect he's long gone by now.”

“We'll look for him.” Jerry spoke into his radio, calling for backup and instructing the dispatcher to spread the word among other law enforcement people, telling them to stop anybody they found either driving or walking near Warner Point, even if the person wasn't wearing a snowman head.

By then more headlights were flashing outside, and in a moment Jason Foster walked through the back door. “I'm going to get that alarm yanked out of here,” he said. “I'm sick and tired of having to come out at the crack of dawn because a cat ran over the terrace.”

Then he stopped and stared at me. “Lee? How did you get here?”

“It's a long story,” I said. “And I have a piece of advice for you.”

“What's that?”

“Reprogram your front door.”

“Front door? But we never come in that way. I don't even know how to open it from the outside.”

“Luckily,” I said, “I do.” I got up and got a paper towel from a roll near the sink. All of a sudden my eyes were brimming. I turned to Jerry. “May I call Joe?”

Gradually things were sorted out.

Joe came. He'd been calling my cell phone, trying to figure out why a thirty-minute errand was taking an hour.

Jason assured me that the note stuffed through the door of TenHuis Chocolade, asking for a special order of chocolate snowmen, had not come from him. He had not had an unexpected request for brunch for the West Michigan Tourism Council, so he hadn't needed to open early.

“I only wish they'd drop by,” he said. “That would be very nice.”

Of course, I'd already figured this out during my trudge around Warner Point in the snow. Jason fixed breakfast for all of us, however, and that was good.

Hogan came, listened to my story, and patted my hand. He said the head of the snowman had been found in the center of the circular drive. There were lots of tracks, both mine and some unidentified person with a foot a bit larger than mine. The crime lab would be there to look at them.

Alex VanDam came, listened to my story, and declared the grounds of Warner Point a crime scene. He told Jason he could plan on opening the restaurant for dinner, however.

Sergeant McCullough of the Lake Knapp PD came. He and Hogan and Alex VanDam went into the dining room and had a big argument. I overheard phrases like “pulling the wool” from McCullough, and like “a hard head and a closed mind” from Hogan. VanDam didn't say a lot.

I gathered that McCullough admitted the tracks in the snow showed I'd done a lot of running and tramping around outside and that somebody else had been right after me. But he thought Joe could have been the “snowman” who chased me. In other words, he was clinging to the theory that Joe and I could have combined forces to commit two murders. The excitement at Warner Point, in his opinion, was simply a distraction we'd planned to throw off the investigators.

Joe and I stayed out of it, except that Joe offered to give them some sample footprints. In a while VanDam came and told us we could go home. “We'll have a patrol car in your vicinity,” he said.

I hadn't been a whole lot of help. Whenever I'd seen the snowman, I'd been running away from him in the dark. I'd never gotten a good look at him.

Of course, the person who had attacked me with the snow shovel and who chased me wasn't wearing the entire snowman mascot outfit. He'd simply stuck the head on. I did know that his body had not been unusually round, puffy, and snowmanlike. He'd been wearing something light colored, but it could have been khaki pants and a poplin jacket. Or a white ski jacket with light blue snow pants. I didn't have a clue. But he didn't have a limp, a peg leg, or any other physical characteristic I'd been able to identify. The big head even made it impossible for me to guess at his height.

I was relieved to find that he hadn't taken my purse or my phone from my van, which had been sitting there wide-open during the whole episode. I told Joe that after we got home.

“At least he didn't steal the van,” I said. “But I wish I'd gotten a better look at him. I thought he was a giant, but that was probably because of the head. And my terror.”

“I'm afraid it must have been someone you know,” Joe said.

“Yeah. He wouldn't have bothered to disguise himself if he didn't think I might recognize him.”

And that was the most important deduction we made.

Aunt Nettie met us at the house. She said she wanted to make sure I was all right. I assured her I was, now.

“Take the day off,” she said. “Lee, you've worked ten straight days getting ready for WinterFest. Dolly and I can handle things. We're only open from eleven to five today.”

So Joe and I lolled around the house all day. Joe built a fire in the fireplace. We got some steaks out of the freezer. We watched television. We even got out the videotape Gordon Hitchcock had brought by and looked at all the WinterFest coverage. Seeing five clips of Mozelle talking about the wonderful-ness of Warner Pier failed to cheer me up.

Then Joe flipped on the Grand Rapids news and Gordon Hitchcock appeared on the screen again, live and in color. My escapade at Warner Point was the third item on the news, right after an eight-car pile-up on East Beltline.

Gordon put on a small smile before he began his report. “Warner Pier chocolatier Lee Woodyard claims she was the object of a wild predawn chase by—get this, folks—a snowman. Warner Pier authorities say they are investigating links between this alleged crime and the Lake Michigan resort's annual Winter Festival, which this year is using a snowman as a logo.”

“Oh, no!” Joe and I said in unison.

Gordon went on. “Woodyard and her husband—Joe Woodyard is Warner Pier city attorney—are already being questioned by police in connection with two killings. . . .”

Blah, blah, blah. He quoted a “state police spokesman,” but his primary source, obviously, was McCullough. Joe and I were figuratively tarred and feathered.

I was too angry to cry about it. “Jerk!” I said. I'm not sure if I meant McCullough or Gordon Hitchcock.

Hitchcock closed his report with film of me, part of the film his photographer had taken in the shop the day earlier. And he climaxed his story with the moment when I'd lost it.

There I was, facing the camera. “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.”

Then they showed what happened next. They showed the moment when tears welled up, and the moment when I turned and walked away.

Joe reached over and hugged me. “Not bad! You zinged that creep.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you came across as a regular human being and as a person intelligent enough to know how Gordon Hitchcock was trying to exploit you.”

I hoped he was right. I hoped it hadn't looked like I was the one trying to exploit Mary's death.

The next morning Hogan and Joe came by the shop, and Aunt Nettie and I had coffee with them in our break room—I was still working back there—and chewed over the case.

Aunt Nettie was still sure that Mendenhall would have been looking for companionship after I dumped him. Paid companionship.

“The desk clerk absolutely denies that he called anybody for Mendenhall,” Hogan said. “And neither Mendenhall's phone nor the motel phone records show any numbers that might have been for a call girl.”

Aunt Nettie wasn't convinced. “Could Mendenhall have—well, gone looking for one?”

Hogan laughed. “Not without taking a cab, Nettie. That motel's in a newly developed suburban shopping center. Prostitutes don't stroll around in supermarkets, fast food joints, lumberyards, and everything-for-a-dollar stores.”

“There aren't any bars?” She looked disappointed.

“Nope. There are no bars or taverns for a mile or more. There's a slightly more upscale motel a block away. They have a bar, but it's not the kind of place to cater to the vice scene.”

“Poor Mendenhall,” I said sarcastically. “Almost out of booze, and he couldn't even get a drink.”

Hogan looked surprised. “Oh, Mendenhall had a full bottle, Lee. Or half full. It was sitting on the table in the crime scene photos.”

“All I saw him with was that little flask. It wouldn't hold much to begin with, and when I dropped him off, it was nearly empty.”

“How do you know?”

“It's in my statement for McCullough. Mendenhall handed it to me, tried to get me to have a drink with him.” I shuddered. “The idea of touching my mouth to something that creep . . . Well, believe me, I didn't take a drink. But I held the flask in my hand, and I thought it was nearly empty. Maybe he had a bottle in his luggage.”

“Surely not!” Aunt Nettie sounded shocked. “It's illegal to take alcoholic beverages onto a plane.”

Hogan grinned. “It's been done, however. But I think Mendenhall probably just walked over to the supermarket and bought a bottle.”

“Does anybody remember seeing him over there?”

“I don't know if McCullough asked about it. It didn't seem too important.”

I guess that would have been the end of that, if I hadn't had to go to Grand Rapids that afternoon.

We got an unexpected call from a customer—a gift shop. They needed a fresh supply of Santa Claus figures. The UPS man had already gone when they called, and it was a large enough order that I agreed to drive it up. Maybe I only wanted a reason to get out of the shop for a while.

Aunt Nettie enthusiastically approved of my trip. That was the first surprise. The next surprise was that she decided to go along.

I blinked hard. “Go with me? Now?”

“Isn't that when you're going?”

“Yes, but you rarely leave the shop when we're so busy.”

“I'm not indispensable. Dolly can handle things. I'll get my coat and help you load up the Santas.”

We were on the road by three o'clock. I wondered if Aunt Nettie had something she wanted to discuss privately, but nothing came up. We made it to our customer's shop and were unloading by four. As we got back in the van, Aunt Nettie gave a happy smile.

“All right,” she said. “Now we can do what I really wanted to do.”

“What's that? A Christmas gift for Hogan?”

“Oh, no! I ordered him something in September.”