The Chocolate Snowman Murders (8 page)

J
oe pulled his phone from his pocket. “I've got Webb Bartlett on my cell,” he said. “Should I call?”

“Aw, I don't think you need a lawyer yet,” McCullough said. “It's just that there are so many ways to interpret your stories.”

“So what's to interpret?” Joe said. “I told you the truth, and I'm sure Lee did, too.”

“Your stories match—that's for sure.” The detective smiled his kindly smile. “Of course, you had all night to match 'em up. But Mrs. Woodyard might have gone into that motel room to put Mendenhall's bag down, and he could have tried to assault her. She would have been perfectly justified in crowning him with the desk lamp.”

“But if I was perfectly justified, wouldn't the smart thing have been to call the cops as soon as he hit the floor?” I said. “Get my story in first?”

McCullough nodded. “Yep. And you're obviously a smart lady. But even smart people can panic. Or you might not have realized how bad he was hurt.”

“Since he was hopping up and down like Rumpelstiltskin when I drove off, that scenery—I mean, scenario! That scenario doesn't apply.”

Joe spoke. “On the other hand, when Lee told me Mendenhall had gotten fresh with her, I might have been so mad I came by here and had some sort of confrontation with him, ending with using the desk lamp as a bludgeon.”

“No, Joe,” I said. “That won't work either. You were a wrestler.”

McCullough looked confused. “A wrestler?”

“Right,” I said. “Joe was state wrestling champ for one hundred seventy-five pounds the year he was a senior in high school. I was present a couple of years ago when one of the local nutcases down at Warner Pier took a poke at him. Joe did not punch him back. That wrestling training kicked in, and Joe had the guy in a headlock in less than a second. Pure instinct. He wouldn't have needed a table lamp to handle Mendenhall.”

Joe snorted. “Thanks, Lee. You're saying I would never have hit Mendenhall. I would have simply broken his neck.”

McCullough laughed.

Joe went on. “Neither of us had any reason to kill Mendenhall deliberately, and neither of us is the kind to get mad enough to do it. And if either of us hit him in self-defense, we're both smart enough to call the police immediately and tell our side.”

McCullough grinned. “You're talking like a defense attorney, Joe.”

“Yep.”

“I bet you're a heck of a cross-examiner,” the detective said. “Now, if you'll both go down to the station, you can make formal statements. Plus, we'll have to get your fingerprints.”

“Of course,” I said. “I know you have to make sure neither of us left any prints in the room.”

“You weren't in there at all?”

“No. I handled Mendenhall's suitcase, as I said. And his flask. And the box of TenHuis chocolates. I don't remember if I had my gloves on or not. But I don't see how my fingerprints could be on any other item in that room.”

“And I never got inside,” Joe said. “I could hear Mendenhall's cell phone ring, but he didn't come to the door.”

“Cell phone.” McCullough sounded thoughtful. “What kind of cell phone did Mendenhall have?”

“I never saw it,” I said. “I talked to him on it, but he had put it away by the time we met at the airport.”

“I only heard it,” Joe said. “Or I guess I did. I called his number from outside the room, and I could hear the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.' But he didn't answer, and I never saw Mendenhall at all. Alive.”

“You heard the ‘Hallelujah Chorus'?”

“That's right. One of those special rings.”

McCullough made just one more request before he sent Joe and me off to headquarters. He asked to search my purse.

I responded by dumping the contents out on the bed, then handing the empty bag to McCullough. He and Robertson looked through my junk. I had makeup, keys, a billfold—containing an embarrassingly small amount of money, two credit cards, and a snapshot of Joe—two old grocery lists, a packet of Kleenex, and a small zipper case with a dozen plastic cards which entitled me to special treatment when buying books, groceries, greeting cards, hardware, and other items. They looked at all the numbers in my cell phone and wrote down the one I said belonged to Mendenhall.

Joe and I were then driven to the Lake Knapp police station. We each had another session, going over our stories. Mine didn't change, and I'm sure Joe's didn't either. Then we each had our fingerprints taken with one of those strange electronic machines now in use for that chore. It was two hours before we were delivered back to the motel. By then it was way past lunchtime. Joe moved his truck to the parking lot of the chain restaurant next door, and we went in and grabbed a booth.

I ordered a hamburger with extra mustard and pickles and told them to leave everything else off; Michigan has great food, but ordinary, everyday restaurants tend to think a hamburger is a dry meat patty and a dry bun. If they put anything on, it's ketchup, and that's heresy to a Texan.

As soon as the waitress left, I spoke to Joe. “Did I see traces of fingerprint dust on your dashboard?”

“Yep. I told them to go ahead and search the truck. I guess they didn't find anything, or they would have kept it.”

“Do you think McCullough seriously suspects either of us?”

“He seems to be a pretty smart guy, Lee, so I imagine that he's still keeping all his options open. I can see at least one thing that doesn't seem to fit in with either of us killing Mendenhall.”

“What's that?”

“The guy's cell phone is missing.”

I gasped. “Golly! That went right by me.”

“Yeah. McCullough didn't make a big deal out of it, but it's obvious that they haven't found Mendenhall's cell phone.”

“It could still turn up in the motel room. Under the bed or someplace.”

“By now they will have looked every place that's likely. My guess is that the killer took it.”

“Why?”

The waitress came with our drinks then, so I had time to think through the answer to my own question. As soon as she left, Joe and I leaned toward each other and did our unison-speaking act again.

“The killer's number was on the phone.” Then we both sat back, looking at each other.

“But, Joe,” I said, “can't the police trace Mendenhall's calls, even without the phone?”

“Sure. The cops will find out who had his phone service and call them. They'll know all the calls he made—oh, by five o'clock today—even if they don't find the phone.”

“Then why would the killer take it away?”

“Maybe he—or she—took it by accident. That's one reason they searched the truck. Mendenhall could have dropped it there. And it might have somehow wound up in your purse.”

“Like he left it in the seat of the truck, and I thought it was mine? Something like that.” I grabbed up my ski jacket and hastily went through the pockets. “No, I'm sure I don't have it. I was wearing jeans yesterday, and they're tight. I would never have put a cell phone in my pants pocket.”

“I know you don't have it,” Joe said, “because when I called Mendenhall's cell number around six thirty yesterday, I heard the phone ring inside the room. But when I called this morning, standing outside his door, I didn't hear it. So I think that phone left the premises between last night and this morning.”

“But taking the phone was useless, since the cops can trace the calls anyway.”

Joe shrugged. “The killer might not have known that.”

“You mean it's someone who doesn't know much about phones?”

“Could be.”

“But who would Mendenhall have called? George didn't talk as if the man had any personal connection with Michigan.”

“He'd been in contact with George, of course. But in any case, McCullough and his team will figure it out.”

“I guess there's nothing we can do.”

Joe reached across the table and took my hand. “There's one thing I can do, Lee. Warn you about McCullough.”

“I caught on to the fatherly act.”

“Good. I did call Webb while they were questioning you. Just to alert him to the situation.”

“What was his advice?”

“Play it just the way we have been. Be honest and open. But he said not to underestimate McCullough. He retired from the Grand Rapids force—and Webb was a little cagey about that.”

“McCullough retired under a cloud?”

“Webb wouldn't say. McCullough's record wasn't bad enough to keep this suburban force from hiring him. But Webb says McCullough's a really smart guy and can be tricky. So if he wants to question you again, call Webb before you talk to him. Okay?”

I shuddered. “I hate this, Joe. I hate having to watch every word I say. I hate being under suspicion. I hate having people think I'm capable of killing someone.”

At that point I looked up and my eyes met those of the man in the next booth. He was staring right at me, and I couldn't believe the look on his face. It could only be called a leer.

A stranger was leering at me? Why? I was dressed conservatively—blazer and slacks. I wasn't wearing a lot of makeup. And I thought I'd been behaving myself.

Then I recognized the guy. It was the desk clerk from the motel, the one who had offered to “do me a favor,” apparently meaning he would not identify me as the woman who dropped Mendenhall off at the motel. He hadn't specified what favor I would have had to do in return. But he'd made it clear he had thought I was a professional girl bringing a client to his motel.

The creep.

“I also hate people thinking I'm a call girl,” I said.

Joe's eyes popped. “Who thinks that?”

“The guy in the booth behind you.” We hadn't been talking loudly, but I lowered my voice even more as I told Joe about my run-in with the desk clerk.

Joe frowned. He also kept his voice low. “It would give me a lot of pleasure to tie him in a knot,” he said. “But right at this juncture it probably wouldn't be a good idea to do the protective-husband act.”

“I'm afraid McCullough would be sure to hear about it,” I said. “You'd probably be in jail before the hamburgers get here. Let's talk about something else. For example, I stopped by George Jenkins' gallery this morning and told him he'd lost another juror.”

We talked about George, then went on to the rest of the WinterFest committee.

“Do you think we need to call Ramona?” I said.

“Let George do it. I'm hungry.”

The food came, and we both tucked in. As I predicted, the hamburgers weren't much, but the French fries were pretty good, and there was a tomato slice on the side of the plate. We ate in a hurry, since we both wanted to get out of there and head home. The desk clerk in the next booth had just received his order when we stood up, ready to go.

Joe winked at me and spoke loudly. “You'll have to hurry, dear. I know you don't want to be late for Bible study.”

I tried not to look at the desk clerk, but his eyes were wide as we went by his booth. I didn't laugh.

The day had warmed up, and the gutters of the busy street were full of slush, so Joe drove me across the street, left me at my van, then told me he'd see me at home. While the van was warming up, I called Aunt Nettie, to tell her I was okay and to see how TenHuis Chocolade was going. I think I wanted to touch base with my normal life.

“Oh, Lee, I've been so worried,” she said. “Does Hogan need to come up there and see what's going on? I mean, what's the point of having a police chief in the family if you never use him?”

I assured Aunt Nettie that Joe and I were on our way home, but I didn't tell her we were both still under suspicion. We could discuss the situation with Hogan later.

Hogan Jones and his first wife had moved to Warner Pier after he had retired from the Cincinnati police department. After his wife died the next year, he became the chief and the sole detective for Warner Pier's five-person police department. And the previous summer he'd taken on Aunt Nettie as the second Mrs. Jones. Both of them had had long, happy first marriages, and they seemed to be settling in for a second marriage that would be as happy and maybe as long.

Aunt Nettie did pass along two messages: Ramona VanWinkle-Snow and George Jenkins both wanted me to call as soon as possible. I sighed. I knew these were the first of many calls from people who would want all the details on Mendenhall.

I started with George, since Aunt Nettie said he had called first. He answered on the second ring.

“Hi,” I said. “It's Lee. Were you able to get the show judged?”

“Oh, yes, that worked out.” Then George began to ask about just what had happened, but I said I'd talk to him later. “I need to get started for home,” I said, “and I don't like to talk while I'm driving if I can avoid it.”

“I just wish I'd had my phone turned on last night so I could take Mendenhall's call.”

“I'd forgotten that you said Mendenhall called you last night. That call may be important!”

“It wasn't important enough for him to tell me what he wanted. He just made some incoherent remarks and left his number.”

I started to tell George that Mendenhall's phone was missing, then decided to allow McCullough to handle that. After all, I might be mistaken.

“Phone calls Mendenhall made to anyone might be important,” I said. “I wouldn't erase the message.”

“I had e-mailed Mendenhall a copy of the committee roster,” George said. “He could have called anybody.”