Strawberry Cream Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 1 (8 page)

Into the silent darkness pulsed sounds and movements and lights.  Heather was unable to make sense of any of them.  She heard unfamiliar voices, sensed movement, felt something being placed over her face, and sucked in air.  Felt strong hands lifting her up and placing her on something soft instead of the hard kitchen tile.

There was movement, then, rushing, swaying movement.  Then one long sound that skirled up and down over and over and over.  All of these things interspersed with moments of silent darkness and constant, cramping pain.

She tried to think, tried to figure out what was happening.  Realized that she must be in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.  Wondered if Michelle was in the same ambulance.  Forced her eyes open and saw that she was alone, except for the EMT leaning over her.

“You’re okay,” he said, gently smoothing back her hair from her forehead.  “You’re on the way to the hospital, and you’re going to get help.”

Something about the low, patient tone of his voice calmed her.  Maybe everything really would be all right.  Heather closed her eyes and let the darkness suck her under.

***

She opened her eyes to see Amy sitting in a chair next to her, smiling.  “Hey, sleeping beauty,” Amy said.

“Amy?” Heather said.

“In the flesh,” Amy said, spooning something from a pitcher and extending the spoon toward her.  “Here.  Eat this.”

“I guess I’m in the hospital,” Heather mumbled.

“Yep.  They wanted to keep you here a little while for observation.  I tried to tell them a little cyanide couldn’t keep you down, but you know how medical professionals are.  They’re over-cautious.”

Heather opened her mouth as Amy offered her another ice chip.  She swallowed and let the coolness coat her dry throat.

“It was the donut,” she said.

Amy wasn’t smiling anymore.  “I know,” she said.  “Apparently, Michelle did the same thing she did to you.  Brought along another donut that was the same kind, and placed the poison-free donut next to Christa’s body to throw off the police.  And it worked, too.  For about 48 hours.  Until you figured it out.”

Heather thought back to Michelle’s arrival at her house.  To when they sat down at the computer desk together.  To when she had reached for the donut, but Michelle had opened the bag and handed her one.  “She wanted to make sure I got the right donut,” Heather said.

“What do you mean?”

“I reached for the bag,” Heather said.  Her tongue felt thick, and she found it difficult to string words together.  “She got it first.  Made sure I took the donut with the cyanide.”  She paused.  “Am I making sense?”

“Mostly,” Amy said.  “But I guess you’re entitled to be a little confusing.”

Heather glanced at the thin, salmon-covered blanket.  Looked up at Amy’s face.  Asked the question she didn’t want to ask.  “How’s Michelle?”

“She’s dead,” Amy said. 

Heather raised her eyes to the ceiling.  Started counting ceiling tiles.  Wondered why Michelle’s death bothered her so much, seeing as how Michelle had tried to kill her.

“Here,” Amy said, gently patting the area beneath Heather’s eyes with a Kleenex to absorb the tears that had spilled there.

Heather took the Kleenex from her and finished the job, then blew her nose.  Took a deep breath, and felt it reach all the way to the bottom of her lungs.  “I never wanted it to be her,” she said.

“I know.”  Amy reached out and squeezed her hand.

Three short knocks sounded at the door, and the door opened a crack.  “Is she awake?” came a voice, as Detective Ryan Shepherd peered into the room.

“I’m awake,” Heather said, sniffling.

“Am I interrupting a ‘moment’?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” Heather said, welcoming him into the room with a small smile.  “Come on in.”

Shepherd stepped through the door and let it quietly close behind him.  He came to stand by the side of her bed opposite Amy, his hands on the bed rail.  “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Heather answered, and realized, surprised, that it was true.

“That’s a good sign,” Shepherd said.  He glanced from Heather to Amy, and back again.  “Do you feel up to answering some questions?”

“Sure,” she said.  “Let’s get this over with.”  She paused, frowned at Amy.  “Wait a minute.  How did you get here?”

“In my car,” Amy said.  “I decided to leave the helicopter at home.”

“You know what I mean,” Heather said.  “How did you know I was here?  I didn’t call you.  I just woke up.”

“
He
called me,” she said, hooking a thumb toward Shepherd.

“
You
called?” Heather asked.

“I figured you might want someone with you.”

“But how did you get her number?”

“From your cell phone.  You had three Amy’s listed, but I chose the one you seem to call or text approximately every 15 minutes, 24/7.”

“So you got the call to handle this—situation?  This case?”

“No.  Actually, it would have been someone else’s call.  But since I was already there, and knew the cases were connected…”  He shrugged.  “I took it.”

“I don’t remember your being there,” Heather said.

“No, and you wouldn’t,” he said.  “By the time I got your message, tried to call you back, and then decided to swing by your house since I wasn’t too far away, you had already called 9-1-1.  I heard the call for police and ambulance go out over the radio.  I got there as fast as I could.”

“Do you have one of those cute gumball lights that you just plop onto the roof whenever you have an emergency?” Amy asked.

“Something like that,” he said.  “Anyway, since I was there, I could get the ball rolling on having the scene processed.  That’s been done.  Now all we need is your testimony.”

“In court?” Heather squeaked.

“No.  The murderer and attempted murderer isn’t able to appear in court.  We just need it for the record.”

“Ask away,” she said.

“Why don’t you tell me how it happened that Michelle was at your house.”

Heather sighed.  “I guess she came over to try to kill me.”

Shepherd’s eyebrow rose, but he said nothing.

She told him the whole story, beginning with her research into where someone could obtain cyanide powder and how it could be delivered.  She told him how she had actually discussed her research with Michelle, still not suspecting a thing, and how even when she realized there had to be two donuts involved and left a message on his voice mail, she still hadn’t realized that the murderer was sitting right next to her.

“I hung up from calling you,” she said, “and then, I just happened to look down at the donut on Michelle’s napkin.  She had torn it in half and left half of it just sitting there.  Half.  Just like the half-donut found next to Christa’s body.  And somehow, I knew.”

“What happened then?” Shepherd asked softly.

She told him about the words, “It was you!” spilling from her lips and how she looked up to find the gun pointing at her.  Told him about the increasing stomach pain, pounding in her chest, and shortness of breath as Michelle herded her down the hallway into the kitchen.

“And then Dave walked into the room,” she said, her voice catching.  “He saved my life.”

“Who’s Dave?” Shepherd asked.

“My dog.  Dave.  He saved my life,” she repeated.  “I saw Michelle look at him.  And I realized that if I could just get her to look away for another second—just an instant—that I could jump her.”  The wetness on her cheeks told Heather the tears had begun to fall again.  “I wasn’t trying to kill her.  I didn’t mean to kill her.  Didn’t
want
to kill her.  I just wanted her not to kill me.”

“You didn’t kill her,” Shepherd said.

It took her a few seconds to know how to respond.  “What do you mean?” she finally managed.

“I mean that you didn’t kill her,” Shepherd said.  “She committed suicide.”

Heather knew her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t seem to close it.

“I know you two were struggling over the gun,” Shepherd said.  “But you did not kill her.  The wound was dead center in her chest and fired straight in.  Not at an angle.  She lay down on the muzzle of that gun and pulled the trigger.”

Heather thought back to last night, to the struggle as she and Michelle wrestled for the gun on the kitchen floor.  Remembered Michelle trying to pull the gun towards her….

Could that be true?  Could it be that Michelle had decided, at the last moment, that there was no way out other than to pull the trigger on herself?

“I don’t know what to say,” she said finally.

“Maybe she realized she’d get caught.  Maybe she really didn’t want to kill you, like she said.  We’ll never know for sure.  What we
do
know is that she chose to end her own life.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded slowly.  Shepherd turned his gaze to Amy.

“Your friend, here, is a little too brave for her own good,” he said.  “Is there any chance you could help rein her in so there isn’t a next time?”

“Not a chance in the world,” Amy said.  She looked at Heather and patted her hand. 
Were those tears in Amy’s eyes?

“That’s what I thought,” Shepherd said.  He sighed.  “Heather, I’ll let you get some more sleep.”

“I think I’m all slept out for awhile,” she said.

“Rest, then.  Whatever.”  He nodded a good-bye that included both women.  “I’ll be back to talk with you tomorrow, if you’re up to it.”

“I will be,” she said.  “Detective…thank you.”

He raised a hand to tip an imaginary hat brim and was gone.

“He’s coming back tomorrow,” Amy sighed.  Lucky you.”

“What do you mean, lucky me?” Heather asked.

“You already know what
I
think of him.  It’s just too bad you don’t think the same.”

“Who said I don’t?” Heather asked.

“You
do
?”

“Of course I do,” she said, smiling, but hating the sudden warmth in her cheeks.  “After all, you said it first.  He
is
hot.”

A letter from the Author

To each and every one of my Amazing readers:
I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
 
Let me know what you think by leaving a review!

I’ll be releasing another installment in two weeks so to stay in the loop (and to get free books and other fancy stuff)
 
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Stay Curious,

Susan Gillard