The Chocolate Snowman Murders by JoAnna Carl

get home.”
    Amos Hart, who had been standing behind Mary in the crowded room, picked that moment to put his hand on her shoulder, and Mary yelped as if he’d kicked her. She turned around, looking panicky.
    â€œOh, Mr. Hart! You startled me.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mary. I just wanted to say you look very pretty tonight.”
    I was surprised by Amos’ comment. Mary could have been pretty, but she wasn’t wearing makeup, her hair was badly cut, and her fluffy dress was much too childish for a woman in her early to middle twenties. I would have loved to turn Mary over to a good stylist for a complete redo.
    Maybe a complete redo would give her some confidence. Amos’ innocuous comment on her appearance seemed to have thrown her into an emotional crisis. She blushed, stammered, and spilled her drink down the front of her dress. Then she turned and fled.
    Amos looked appalled. “Was I that crude? I was just trying to be nice to that poor child.”
    â€œYou were fine, Amos. Nobody ever told Mary that when you get a compliment all you have to do is say thanks.”
    â€œI had a compliment for your aunt, too. The big snowman is wonderful!”
    â€œI’ll tell her you said so. He’ll be displayed in our window for the rest of the WinterFest.”
    â€œAnd the small snowmen are great, too! I really like the singing one: The way his mouth makes an ‘O’ is super.”
    â€œYes, he’s delightful. But where did you see him?”
    â€œWeren’t there some on the refreshment table?”
    â€œI don’t think so. They’re not on sale until tomorrow.”
    Amos looked confused. “Then I don’t know where it was.”
    I sipped my wine and decided it would be tactful to change the subject. “I’m looking forward to the choral concert next weekend. Are you pleased with the way it’s going?”
    â€œI’m hopeful. It’s surprising how many good voices there are in a small town like Warner Pier. I think it’s a tribute to the quality of choral music instruction in the schools and the churches.”
    â€œThe churches? I thought most of our churches were too small to have real choir directors—except for your church, of course. Most churches here don’t even have regular choirs.”
    â€œThey don’t in winter perhaps. Like everything in Warner Pier, the churches get larger when the summer people come, and the choirs follow that trend.” I’d brought up a subject Amos had obviously studied, because he began to enumerate which of the Warner Pier churches had professional choir directors and which of them had active choirs. And how large those choirs were. I was amazed at the amount of information he had collected.
    Amos was still lecturing me about the local choirs when Mozelle joined us. To my surprise, she touched Amos on the arm. “I don’t feel compelled to stay all evening,” she said. “We can leave whenever you’ve seen enough.”
    â€œWe?” Since when were Amos and Mozelle “we”?
    I nearly choked on my white wine. Instead I sipped it gently and tried not to show my surprise. “I haven’t looked at a thing,” I said. “I’d better start oozing—I mean, ogling! I’d better start ogling the art.”
    â€œThat’s exactly the right word for some of it,” Amos said. “Ogle, I mean. I’m no art expert, but the meanings of some of the pieces are unmistakable, and not what I’d call uplifting.”
    I chuckled and tried to make the sound casual. “I’ll look for the works with the most people around them. Controversy always brings crowds.”
    â€œThey may not be controversial in Warner Pier,” Mozelle said. “The town has grown more and more liberal artistically.”
    â€œI’m sorry to say I think you’re right,” Amos said.
    â€œLee, that’s why I believe you’d enjoy