The Chocolate Snowman Murders by JoAnna Carl Page B

around besmirched the husband of her archrival, Ramona. And Bob certainly wasn’t making a secret of his feelings about Mendenhall. Didn’t that indicate he wasn’t concerned in his death?
    As I walked away I was furious with Mozelle all over again. I became completely determined that I wouldn’t mention what she had said to anybody. Not even to Sergeant McCullough. Not even if he asked.
    Joe spoke in to my ear, which was the best way to communicate in the noisy room. “Hogan and Nettie asked us to go to dinner with them,” he said. “I hope that’s all right with you. You said you wanted to go home early.”
    â€œNo, it’s a good idea. I want to talk to Hogan.”
    As Aunt Nettie had said, what’s the point of having a police chief in the family if you don’t use him. I was dying to go over the whole Mendenhall situation with Hogan.
    I began rehearsing my story as I hit the party’s food table, determined to stick to veggies and not ruin my appetite for dinner. And there I came face-to-face with a fellow WinterFest committee member, Jason Foster, manager of the Warner Pier Conference Center and operator of its restaurant.
    Since Jason was in charge of the reception, I wasn’t surprised to see him standing behind the steamboat round. His long white chef’s jacket, neckerchief, and George Washington–style queue made him look like an eighteenth-century dandy who had laid his velvet coat aside.
    â€œHi,” I said. “I suppose you’re too busy feeding the rest of us to get anything to eat yourself.”
    Jason grinned. “I sampled everything in the kitchen. How about some roast beef?” He deftly sliced a thin sliver of pink meat, and I caught it on a tiny piece of rye bread.
    â€œI left the meeting early,” Jason said, “so I didn’t get to hear all you and Joe had to report on the big murder investigation.”
    â€œWe didn’t have anything startling to say—the Lake Knapp police are not confiding in us. The main thing, I guess, is that after I dumped Mendenhall at the motel, he may have tried to call someone in Warner Pier. I don’t suppose he phoned you?”
    â€œIf he did, I didn’t get the call.” Jason leaned close to me. “To tell the truth, George finished hanging the show about seven, and I went home and had a stiff scotch. DeWitt’s here, you know.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t know.”
    DeWitt was the grown son of Jason’s partner, Casey. “He doesn’t come often, does he?”
    â€œNo, but this year he’s determined to spoil my Christmas by making me be polite when I’m home as well as when I’m at work.” Jason grimaced. “Maybe I’m jealous. Anyway, I went to bed early and left DeWitt and Casey to their reminiscences. For one thing, I knew it was the last time I’d get any sleep for a couple of weeks.”
    â€œI think everyone was trying to gather strength for the big event,” I said. “We’re all afraid we’ll have to work too hard—and afraid we won’t.”
    Jason and I shared a smile. If the Winter Festival promotion went over well, Warner Pier merchants would be exhausted. If it flopped, they’d be standing around with nothing to do. In the one case, we’d all be tired, but happy. In the other we’d be less tired, but extremely unhappy. So we were hoping for exhaustion.
    A half hour later lots of the art patrons were moving into the restaurant dining room for dinner, so Hogan and Joe suggested the four of us avoid the crowd by going to Herrera’s. Aunt Nettie and I readily agreed.
    â€œMaybe Aunt Nettie can get some peace there,” I said. “She’s the belle of the art show because of the success of her big snowman.” Aunt Nettie smiled modestly.
    Herrera’s is one of four restaurants owned by Mike Herrera, a person who affects our lives in lots of ways. First,