The Chocolate Snowman Murders (7 page)

“Y'all?” Robertson smiled even more widely. My Texas accent had been the final flourish to convince him that I was some backward Southern belle who couldn't think straight. “Y'all jes tell Uncle Van all about it.” He leaned closer to me, displaying his eyeteeth.

He shouldn't have done that. Those teeth reminded me strongly of Dr. Fletcher Mendenhall, and I gave an involuntary shudder. “No!”

“Honey chile! I can be a very friendly guy.”

“We're not friends, Detective Robertson. We're doing business—your business. I want to talk to my husband before I say anything else.”

“Honey, your husband could be in big trouble. If you're so concerned about him, you'd better tell me what happened.”

“I'll be glad to make a statement, but my husband is the attorney in the family, and I don't feel I can do that until I consult him.”

“All we want ‘y'all' to do is tell us the truth.”

“Then let me talk to my husband.”

“You could save him a lot of trouble by talking to me now, honey.” He was still grinning, and I could swear he had edged closer to me.

I reached into my purse and took out a notebook. “Let me be sure I'm spelling your name correctly,” I said. “Was your first name Van? V-A-N?”

Robertson backed off slightly. “Yes.”

“And is your last name Robertson? Not Robinson?” Now he was frowning. “Robertson.”

“And what is your badge number?”

“You don't need that.”

“Probably not. But it might help, in case I decide to file a complaint.”

“You don't have any grounds for a complaint.”

“Don't I? You have made fun of my state of origin—and believe me, Detective Robertson, that's not something Texans take lightly.” I allowed myself a small smile. “You have called me ‘Honey chile' and ‘Honey' on three occasions, and I consider that harassment.”

“Lady . . .”

“And you have refused to take me to the area where witnesses are being questioned. I consider that you have behaved in a most unprofessional manner. Of course, before making a final judgment I will consult my uncle, who is a police chief with thirty years' experience on the Cincinnati police force.”

He frowned, and I fired one final shot. “And please get out of my side of this booth. I don't like feeling that you're trapping me inside it.”

He slid out, his face like a Texas thundercloud, and gestured. “You want to join the other witnesses? Come along.”

As I stood up, I was delighted to realize that I was two inches taller than he was. Actually, I was probably his height, but by some bit of luck I'd picked the boots with three-inch heels to wear that day. I threw my shoulders back and looked down at him, then walked toward the front of the restaurant.

Part of me realized that ticking off a detective wasn't smart. It might even get me arrested. But after the condescending way he'd acted, I enjoyed myself all the way to the cashier. And I refused to allow him to pay for my coffee.

I stayed on my high horse as I walked to the motel, stepping through the snow as if I were grinding my heels into Robertson's face with every step. But even after we got to the motel, I didn't see Joe. As star witness, I realized, he was probably being kept in solitary confinement someplace. I was marched into the motel lobby and told to be seated in the tiny area with chairs, tables, and a television set. Two giant hot pots and a selection of plastic-wrapped pastries were on a shelf along one side, so I deduced that the motel offered a continental breakfast.

“Don't talk to anyone,” Robertson said. He left through a back door, but a uniformed patrolman was sitting with us. I didn't know if he was there to enforce the no-talking edict or to listen in if any of us felt compelled to confess.

There were only two other people present, two women. Both of them wore smocks with their names over the pockets. Both looked Hispanic. Having been told not to talk, I immediately felt the urge to trot out my high school Spanish, but I resisted. I also resisted the temptation to have a cup of the motel's coffee, which had probably been stewing since six a.m. I took off my coat, and I simply sat. One of the women had been crying, and I didn't like to stare at her, so I stared at the floor.

I was still staring at the floor—the carpet was patterned with blue amoebas and was none too clean—when a figure sat down next to me. I looked up, hoping it was Joe, but no such luck.

It was a young kid, wearing a white shirt and black tie. He wore his hair slicked back, and he'd used too much hair gel. He leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice. “Hey. I could help you out.”

I didn't answer. After all, I'd been told not to talk. Instead I looked for the uniformed cop who'd been sitting with us. He was gone.

“I could help you,” the young man said again. “And you could return the favor.”

“I don't think I need help, thank you,” I said. “And we were told not to talk.”

“The cops are going to ask me to identify the woman who dropped the dead guy off yesterday. But I could forget what she looked like.”

I stood up and moved to a chair across the room.

The young guy shrugged, then got to his feet. He walked through a door at the other end of the lobby and immediately reappeared behind the reception desk. He picked up a telephone and spoke into it. His voice was loud.

“Yeah, she's the one,” he said.

I was getting madder by the minute. Somebody was using cheap tricks to put me on the defensive. I didn't know if it was the cheesy desk clerk or the cheesy detective, but I wasn't feeling defensive. I was, as a matter of fact, ready to go on the offensive.

So as soon as the uniformed cop came back, I confronted him. “Who's in charge here?”

“Sergeant McCullough. He'll be out soon.”

“I hope so. I'm getting sick of being harassed.”

The cop I was talking to merely scowled, but a sympathetic voice came from behind me. “Harassed? We can't have that.”

I turned, and all I saw was Joe. Without a word, I threw my arms around him.

Joe chuckled. “Hey! It's okay.”

“Why wouldn't they let me see you?”

“They don't want us to give each other hints about what to say, Lee.”

“Now, Mr. Woodyard . . .” The words came from a fatherly-looking man with beautiful white hair and a matching white mustache. He smiled beneficently. “Your husband has been very cooperative, Mrs. Woodyard. Now if you'll just give us your statement, I'm sure this matter can be cleared up.”

He was completely reassuring, the personification of kindness and understanding. I could feel myself begin to relax.

Joe spoke then. “This is Sergeant McCullough, Lee. Just tell him the absolute truth. Strictly factual.”

Joe sounded as reassuring as McCullough looked. The only hitch was that he squeezed my hand really hard at the same time he was talking. Then he turned his head so that the detective couldn't see his face, and he gave me a direct, hard look. And that squeeze and that look both said, “Watch out!”

I squeezed his hand back. “I'll be glad to make a statement, Joe, though I have no idea what happened to Mendenhall. But I'd appreciate your staying with me.”

“It's probably best if I don't,” Joe said. “If you're uneasy, I can call Webb Bartlett.”

McCullough chuckled. “Oh, it doesn't sound as if Mrs. Woodyard will need an attorney.”

“Webb and I were in law school together,” Joe said. He was being chummy with McCullough. “Lee knows him as a friend.”

Webb had represented my ex-husband's son a couple of years earlier, when the teenager was suspected—falsely—in a Warner Pier crime. Joe and I occasionally went out to dinner with Webb and his wife, and they'd come to our wedding. Yes, I considered Webb a friend.

“I'll wait for you here,” Joe said. He smiled as if that was his idea, but I felt sure that McCullough wouldn't allow him to leave until he made sure our statements matched. I just hoped he'd let both of us leave after we'd told all.

McCullough, talking about the weather, escorted me to a room just down the hall. It was a regular motel room, but it did have a table and chairs crammed into one end. I didn't have to sit on the bed. Detective Robertson did.

McCullough smiled, looking like a benevolent granddaddy. “Now, Mrs. Woodyard, how did you happen to pick Dr. Mendenhall up at the airport?”

I told the whole story, trying to keep it brief. McCullough didn't interrupt me. I made it through with only a few slips of the tongue, ending with Mendenhall running after me as I drove off.

McCullough was still smiling. “So, you led Mendenhall to believe that you would go to this motel room with him.”

“I tried not to say or do anything that would imply that.”

“But he thought you would be coming in.”

“Not from anything I said. I said, ‘If you feel this way, you need to get a room.' I did not say, ‘We need to get a room.' I was careful to say ‘you.' I never—never—told him I would be joining him in it.”

“But you let him think you would be coming in.”

“What he thought was not my responsibility, Sergeant McCullough. Anyway, the prospect scared him spitless.”

“It scared him?”

“Yes. You know, these types who come on so hard don't really want to succeed.” I couldn't resist taking a look at Detective Robertson. “He simply wanted to embarrass me.”

“And did he?”

“Of course. Ask your wife. An episode like that is extremely embarrassing to any woman. But it also made me mad.”

“Mad enough to hit him?”

“Mad enough to shove him back onto his own side of the seat when he started breathing down my neck. But my main object was simply to get rid of him. I didn't want to drive forty-five more minutes—in heavy traffic on winter roads—trying to fend him off. For one thing, I probably would have had a wreck.”

“You came up with an ingenious way to get rid of him, Mrs. Woodyard.” He chuckled and turned to Robertson. “Ask Mr. Woodyard to step in.”

He hummed softly while we waited for Joe, and he greeted him with a broad smile. I was beginning to relax. Maybe we'd be able to leave right away.

Joe dropped a hand on my shoulder as he came in. He stood behind me, and we both looked at McCullough.

The detective smiled his beneficent smile again. “Now,” he said, “if I could just decide which one of you I ought to charge.”