The Chocolate Snowman Murders by JoAnna Carl Page A

our church—even if you don’t want to sing in my choir.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Amos. You lost me. What do you mean?” He spoke earnestly. “I mean that you’re from Texas. That’s part of the Bible Belt. You probably grew up in conservative churches.”
    â€œActually, in Prairie Creek the First United Methodist was considered scandalously liberal,” I said. “I see Joe over there, and I need to tell him something. Bye.”
    I walked away, hoping that steam wasn’t shooting out my ears. I hate it when people assume that because I’m from Texas I think a certain way. Texans tend to be independent thinkers, after all. It’s not that I was insulted by being considered a religious conservative. I probably am conservative by some people’s standards. It’s that I hate being judged by where I grew up, especially by people who have never been in Texas and don’t know one thing about the state. So there.
    I’d calmed down by the time I’d made my way through the crowd and had reached Joe. I took his arm, just the way Mozelle had taken Amos’. “Seen anything you want to buy?”
    â€œI thought the budget wouldn’t allow art purchases?”
    â€œProbably not. I haven’t really looked at the show yet. Have you?”
    â€œNo. But I’ve seen all the people I needed to talk to.”
    We laughed and began to walk around and look at the art. The first-place winner, I decided, was the one Amos Hart had found offensive. It was an oil by an artist I didn’t know and, yes, you didn’t have to understand symbolism to get what it was about. I admired the colors and textures, but I was not tempted to put it in our living room.
    Johnny Owens’ reindeer had received an honorable mention. It was displayed in front of Mozelle’s watercolor—her usual pale pastel beach scene. The first judge had obviously seen something in her work that I didn’t or she wouldn’t even be in the show.
    I caught my breath when I saw the best of show. It was a dramatic photograph of a storm over Lake Michigan and had been taken by Ramona’s husband, Bob Van Winkle-Snow. Bob himself, a blocky guy whose shoulderlength gray hair flew in all directions, was holding court in front of the photo.
    â€œOh, Bob!” I said. “It’s stunning!”
    Bob smiled. “I’m highly gratified that Dr. Harrison liked it. Believe me, if that jerk Mendenhall had judged the show it wouldn’t have won a thing.”

Chapter 8

    I must have looked surprised, because Bob got defensive.
    â€œSorry if you don’t think I should speak ill of the dead,” he said.
    â€œNeither of us will argue with your opinion of Mendenhall, no matter how bad it is,” Joe said, “and I don’t think the fact that he’s dead changed any of his personal characteristics. I guess you knew the guy.”
    â€œWe exchanged a few words. In fact, we exchanged them publicly. He was one of these dinosaurs who think photography isn’t an art form.”
    I pointed to the photograph with the big rosette on the corner. “That’s definitely art to me, Bob. It’s beautiful to look at and moving emotionally. Where was it shot?”
    Bob looked proud and began to tell where he had taken it and to describe the darkroom techniques he had used to heighten the storm clouds. No, he said, it wasn’t computer enhanced.
    â€œThough I do use the computer sometimes. That’s one of the things idiots like Mendenhall won’t accept.”
    The conversational group shifted then, and Joe and I moved on. But I moved on convinced that Bob VanWinkle-Snow was the person Mozelle had been talking about when she said Mendenhall had a public fight with a Warner Pier artist. Bob was the person she’d wanted to set up as a suspect without going to the police herself.
    It was simply too coincidental that the dirt Mozelle was spreading