The Chocolate Snowman Murders (5 page)

Mendenhall gave that fruity chuckle I'd heard on the phone. “No matter. I had business to transact before I could leave the airport. Your timing is perfect.”

I opened the passenger's door and took Mendenhall's suitcase from him. It was small enough to slip behind the passenger's seat, so I shoved it in there. Mendenhall climbed into the cab of the truck, and I went around to the driver's side. I buckled up and pulled away as quickly as possible, mindful of airport rules about lingering too long at the curb.

I was on the exit road before I turned to Mendenhall again. He took his knitted hat off and gave me a goofy grin. Then he put out a hand, holding a flat metal container toward me.

“Can I offer you a little drink?” he said. His eyes were slightly unfocused.

The man was as drunk as a skunk.

D
r. Fletcher Mendenhall, I realized, had used the twenty minutes he had to wait for me to visit the airport bar. In fact, as I looked at his bleary eyes, I became convinced that he hadn't visited only the airport bar. He'd had a good head start before his plane landed.

He was leaning ever closer to me—barely restrained by his seat belt—and was still offering me the old-fashioned flat metal flask.

“Just a little drink?” he said.

“No, thank you,” I said. “I don't drink while I'm driving.”

“Oh.” He sounded terribly hurt. “A little one won't hurt you.”

“I need to concentrate on driving my husband's truck,” I said.

Dr. Mendenhall leaned back in his corner and sighed. Maybe he was going to be a docile drunk. Maybe he wouldn't be a problem while I drove him to Warner Pier, an hour away down a wintry Michigan highway. Maybe.

How should I handle this? Was silence the best method? Or should I use casual talk to give the drive a semblance of normalcy?

I never really decided which was the best method. I simply couldn't sit there without talking. So I began to tell Mendenhall why my husband hadn't picked him up. I managed the story pretty well, except that I said Joe was in a meeting with the “atonal generator” instead of the “attorney general.” And maybe I emphasized the word “husband” more than necessary. I wanted to make sure Mendenhall knew I had one.

My talk made no difference to Mendenhall. He leaned back in his corner and didn't seem to be paying attention. I began to relax. After all, as Johnny Owens had said, Mendenhall was just a little shrimp. I was six inches taller than he was, even if he was a lot bigger around. And he was acting quite meek. I tried to convince myself that I could deliver him to Sarajane Foster's B and B with no trouble to either of us. Then he'd be
her
problem. Or could I do that to Sarajane?

That plan might have worked, if it hadn't been rush hour. Just after we merged onto Interstate 196, which leads south to Warner Pier, traffic came to a complete stop.

The lack of movement seemed to rouse Mendenhall. He sat up. “Where are we?”

“South of Grand Rapids. Traffic is heavy this afternoon.”

He offered me the flask again. “Now that we're stopped, you can take your hands off the wheel and have a drink.”

“No, thanks.”

He unbuckled his seat belt. “At least I can get comfortable.”

“Please keep your seat belt on, Dr. Mendenhall. Michigan is very strict about that. I don't want to get pulled over.”

“A pretty girl like you could talk your way out of a ticket.”

“I wouldn't want to try. And if I have to stop in a hurry, I might toss you through the windshield.” I didn't add that that prospect sounded quite enticing.

Mendenhall slid toward me. “You're too pretty to be so standoffish. Have a drink.”

“No.”

At that moment traffic began to move again, and I concentrated on the clutch and the gearshift of the unfamiliar truck. I ignored Mendenhall. Maybe he'd get the idea.

Once traffic began to move, it accelerated fast. For a mile I was fully occupied in driving. Then my lane slowed suddenly, and I had to downshift.

That was when I realized that Mendenhall had moved toward me, sliding across the seat. I was too worried about a semi on my left to look at him, but I spoke firmly. “Dr. Mendenhall, please buckle your seat belt.”

“Oh, come on, young lady. I can't be friendly clear over on the other side of this truck.”

I was downshifting from third to second—with both hands and both feet extremely busy—when he ran his hand along the inside of my knee.

My reflexes took over. I put all my strength behind a vigorous jab with my right elbow that caught him in the shoulder. “Get back in your seat belt!”

Mendenhall moved away, though not as far away as I would have liked.

I sneaked a glance at him. He was rubbing his shoulder and looking wounded. If he wanted sympathy, he was out of luck. I was wishing my elbow had had a spear point attached.

Traffic slowed almost to a stop again. We were barely moving, and I tried to watch Mendenhall out of the corner of my eye.

He was still rubbing his shoulder. “That wasn't very friendly. When I visit a new place, I like to be friendly.”

“Pawing at a woman who is not eager for your attentions is not friendly. Please buckle your seat belt and stay on your side of the cab, Dr. Mendenhall.”

He took another nip from his flask, pouting. He did not put his seat belt on. Traffic inched along. I was imprisoned in the truck. I began to make plans for breaking out of that prison.

We passed a sign saying it would be a mile before the next exit, one long mile before I could get off the interstate.

I allowed myself to hope that Mendenhall would subside. Pass out. Catch on to the idea I was trying to put across.

Unfortunately, the idea he got was not the one I had in mind. Traffic began to move a little faster, but we'd barely gone a hundred feet—I was shifting from first to second—when Mendenhall slid across the seat and leaned toward me.

“Now, Lee, I know you can be friendly. A beautiful woman like you knows she's attractive to men. You must enjoy the attention.”

He got up on his knees in the seat, leaned over, and breathed down my neck.

“Get away!” As soon as I could get my hand off the gearshift, I put my palm in the enter of his chest and pushed him over backward. “Stay away from me!”

He chuckled. “You know you like it.”

Just then I saw the promise of deliverance. It was one of those highway signs describing which services are available at exits.

There was a motel at the next exit, I saw, and that exit was now close. I slid the truck into the exit lane without bothering to make a turn signal.

Mendenhall was getting up onto his knees, apparently ready for another try at my nape, and my sudden swerve almost threw him into the dashboard. As soon as he regained his balance, he began to crawl across the seat toward me. I again put my palm in the center of his chest. This time I pushed gently.

“If you're feeling this amorous,” I said, “you need to get a room.”

The guy nearly fell over backward, and it wasn't because of my push. He was flatly astonished. “A room?”

“Yes. There's a motel at this exit. They rent rooms. Do you have a credit card?”

“A credit card?”

“To pay for the room.”

“The room?”

He sounded scared to death. Dr. Fletcher Mendenhall was confirming something I'd long suspected. These creeps who come on so hard with no encouragement don't really want to succeed. They're simply trying to embarrass the object of the chase. Something about me—could it be my height?—had intimidated Mendenhall. He had no sexual interest in me at all. He simply felt that he had to humiliate me.

I wasn't humiliated. I was furious. And we were about to find out who wound up embarrassed.

We reached the bottom of the exit ramp, and an arrow on another highway department sign showed me which way to turn. I made a hard right, drove a block, and turned into the driveway of a budget motel chain. It looked sleazy enough for my purpose.

The truck skidded slightly as I hit the brakes in front of the office. I turned to face Mendenhall and smiled. “Okay. Get a room.”

A broad smile came over the professor's face. Once again he offered me his old-fashioned flask. This time I took it from him, though I didn't drink from it. The idea of touching my lips to something that Mendenhall's mouth had been on was nauseating. I could barely stand to hold it in my hand.

“I'll keep this,” I said. “You go in and get a room.”

Instead, he leaned toward me, apparently deciding my new attitude deserved a kiss.

Again, I gently shoved him away with my palm. “Get a room.”

He almost fell getting out of the truck, and he staggered slightly as he went into the office. As soon as he was inside, I grabbed my phone and tried to call Joe. His phone was out of service. I debated throwing Mendenhall's suitcase out right there, but by the time I'd left a message for Joe, Mendenhall was coming back out. I put the phone away.

Mendenhall got into the truck and held up a key card. “Around to the right,” he said, “and I want to assure you that I consider myself a very lucky man.”

“What's the room number?”

“One twenty-two.”

“Good. You're on the ground floor.”

There was a parking spot in front of 122, and I pulled into it. Mendenhall got out and went to the door. By the time he'd fumbled through opening it—he tried at least four times before he got the card in the slot the right way up—I had taken his suitcase out from behind the seat.

He turned around, smiling, and motioned for me to precede him into the room.

I crossed the walkway and dropped the suitcase in front of him. I handed him the flask. I presented him with the box of chocolate snowmen I'd forgotten to give him earlier.

“Good-bye,” I said.

Then I got back in the truck and locked the doors. Mendenhall was still standing there, looking stupid, as I backed out of my parking place.

I rolled the window down a few inches and yelled through it. “Someone will pick you up in the morning!” Then I drove off.

I was halfway back to the office before Mendenhall ran after me, shaking his fist. I could see his lips move, but I was too far away to understand what he was saying.

Leaving the motel, I turned right so that I wouldn't have to wait for traffic to clear. This meant I had to turn around in the parking lot of the supermarket across the street to head back to I-196, but I did not want to linger on the motel grounds.

Once I was on I-196, headed toward Warner Pier, the pace of traffic had picked up, and I was able to drive at top speed for five miles. My phone rang twice, but when I checked the number, I saw it was the one I'd called to reach Mendenhall. I turned the phone off.

I pulled off at an exit that advertised a McDonald's. I went inside, ordered a cup of coffee, sat down at a table, and shook. I don't know if the shaking was caused by nervousness or fury.

After a couple of sips of caffeine, I turned my phone back on and tried to call Joe again. Still no answer. Mendenhall hadn't left a message, and he had apparently quit trying to reach me. I scanned the numbers I had saved in my cell phone. I didn't have George Jenkins' number, and I needed to tell him I'd dumped his juror. I found Ramona's number, however, and she needed to be told, too. I called her, but she wasn't answering. I didn't leave a message. Somehow I didn't want a permanent record of anything I might say at that moment.

By then I'd stopped shaking, and I remembered that Joe kept a Warner County phone book in his truck. I put the lid on my coffee, got back in the vehicle, found the phone book, and called George Jenkins. He didn't answer either.

Sarajane Foster needed to know she'd have an empty room at the B and B that night, and I tried to call her. No answer there, either, but the answering machine picked up. I left a message saying Mendenhall wouldn't be there until the next day, but I didn't explain why. I simply said he was staying in Grand Rapids that night.

Since it was then after five p.m., in December, in Michigan, the sun was down. I drove on home. The drive was not improved when it began to snow enough to slow traffic.

I don't like driving in snow, but I wasn't sorry to have something to worry about besides my run-in with Dr. Fletcher Mendenhall and my frustrated attempts to tell somebody what had happened.

Mad as I was, I was sensible enough to know that I didn't want to tell the whole world. I had to assume that Mendenhall would sober up and fulfill his responsibilities as judge of the WinterFest art show. There was no purpose in humiliating George Jenkins and the WinterFest committee by making the out-of-town jerk's transgressions generally known.