Read The Chocolate Snowman Murders for Free Online

me.
    â€œCan I offer you a little drink?” he said. His eyes were slightly unfocused.
    The man was as drunk as a skunk.

Chapter 3

    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.
    â€œJust a little drink?” he said.
    â€œNo, thank you,” I said. “I don’t drink while I’m driving.”
    â€œOh.” He sounded terribly hurt. “A little one won’t hurt you.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œSouth 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.”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    He unbuckled his seat belt. “At least I can get comfortable.”
    â€œPlease keep your seat belt on, Dr. Mendenhall. Michigan is very strict about that. I don’t want to get pulled over.”
    â€œA pretty girl like you could talk your way out of a ticket.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œNo.”
    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.”
    â€œOh, 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