Read Online The Chocolate Snowman Murders by JoAnna Carl - Free Book Online Page A

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.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œOf course,” I said. “I know you have to make sure neither of us left any prints in the room.”
    â€œYou weren’t in there at all?”
    â€œNo. 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.”
    â€œAnd I never got inside,” Joe said. “I could hear Mendenhall’s cell phone ring, but he didn’t come to the door.”
    â€œCell phone.” McCullough sounded thoughtful. “What kind of cell phone did Mendenhall have?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYou heard the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’?”
    â€œThat’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?”
    â€œYep. I told them to go ahead and search the truck. I guess they