Maple Frosted Murder (Donut Hole 2) (4 page)

That
afternoon, Heather handed the last customer of the day a bag containing two
White Christmas donuts.  “Merry Christmas,” she said, smiling.

“Merry
Christmas.”  Her customer smiled back.

Heather
waited until the woman had left the shop, then crossed the dining area to lock
the front door and turn the sign to Closed.  “All right, people,” she called
out in a cheery voice.  “Let’s get everything cleaned up.  It’s time to party!”

Maricela
and Angelica turned in unison to look at her.  Jung paused, the cash register
tray in his hands.  “What party?” he asked.

“Our
party,” she said.  “Come on, I’ll help clean.”

With
four people wiping, scrubbing, counting, sweeping, and washing, it didn’t take
them long to clean the shop to a level that even the health department would
approve of.  Heather darted out to her car to retrieve three brightly colored
gift bags with tissue paper sticking out of the top.

“You
didn’t have to bring us anything,” Angelica protested.

“Of
course I did,” she said.  “We’re family.  Over here, everybody.”

They
all sat down around one of the larger tables.  Her employees watched her
expectantly as she placed a gift bag in front of each one, leaning around the
evergreen-with-red-candle-and-berries centerpiece in the middle of the table.

“Before
you open these,” she said, “I want to say something.”

She
cleared her throat, met each of their gazes, and began again.  “Over the past
few days, I’ve been thinking,” she said.  “I’ve been thinking about Stan, and
his death, and the way he ran his store.  You all know that he didn’t treat his
employees very well.”

Somber
nods followed her words.

“Well,
I want to make sure I’m not like that.  I want not only to pay you a good
salary, but to show you appreciation.  I want you to know how much you mean to
me.  I said it a minute ago, and I’ll say it again—we’re family.”  She paused,
looking at each of their dear faces, and saw tears in Maricela’s eyes.

“Go
ahead, open your gifts before I cry,” Heather said hurriedly, waving a hand in
front of her face.

Maricela
reached for her bag, then hesitated.  “You’re not like that,” she said, looking
straight at Heather.  “Gift or no gift.”

Heather
smiled as they all dug into their bags.  She watched as they each pulled out a
gift card and flipped open the little folder it came in.  When Maricela and
Jung saw the amounts, they were speechless.  But Angelica burst into tears, got
up, and hurried around the table to hug her.

“This
means to me a lot,” she sobbed, holding tightly to Heather.  Suddenly, she let
Heather go and reached for a napkin to wipe her eyes, and another one to blow
her nose.  She mumbled something Heather didn’t catch.

“What
did you say?” Heather asked.

Angelica
smiled through her tears and gestured to Maricela, who said, “She says, ‘I wish
I didn’t always ugly cry.’”

They
all laughed, then, and Jung and Maricela thanked her for their gifts as well. 
“You’re welcome,” Heather said, then spread her hands flat on the table top. 
“Okay.  I don’t want to keep you any longer.”

Jung
and Maricela exchanged a glance, and Jung said, “Stay there a minute, please.”

Heather
watched as he walked around behind the front counter and ducked down behind
it.  She could no longer see him, but she could hear rustling.  In a moment, he
stood up with a gift bag, which he held proudly in front of him as he crossed
the dining area toward her.

“What’s
this?” Heather asked.  “Well, okay, duh, it’s a gift, but—you—you didn’t…”  She
fumbled to a stop.

“You
always give to everyone else,” Maricela said.  “Why shouldn’t we give to you?”

“Because—oh,
I don’t mean this to sound bad—but because you’re my employees.  I’m the boss. 
You shouldn’t have to do anything for me.”

“It
doesn’t sound bad at all,” Maricela said.  “Donut Delights is your shop.  You
run it.  We’re your employees.  Just don’t forget that we’re also your
friends.”

“You
gave me a job when I was in desperate need of one,” Angelica said.  “You didn’t
have to do that.”

“You’ve
been worth every cent I’ve paid you, and then some,” Heather said.  “All of you
have.  I couldn’t pay you enough for your friendship.”

“You
not make me ugly cry again,” Angelica said, and they all laughed.  “You open
your gift.”

Heather
lifted out the tissue paper and set it on the table next to the gift bag.  She
reached her hand inside and felt her fingers close around something hard and
metal.  She lifted out a simple yet elegant silver picture frame, and as she
looked at the picture contained in it, she burst out laughing.

Maricela,
Angelica, and Jung were all in the picture, leaning close together, their arms
around each other, smiling for the camera.  Each of them wore reindeer antlers
and a bright red Rudolph nose.  “Thank you,” Heather said.  “This is going on
my desk.  Thank you so much.”

“There’s
one more thing,” Maricela said.

Heather
reached back into the bag and located a small envelope.  Opening it, she found
a gift card to Hillside’s most upscale spa.  “It because you always take care
of us,” Angelica said.  “Now you let someone else take care of you.”

“You
guys are amazing, and I love you all,” Heather said, standing up.  “Group hug!”

They
all met on her side of the table, formed a circle, and squeezed each other
tight.

***

Heather
didn’t check her cell phone until she was in the car on her way home.  She
listened to her one message and found that it was from Ryan Shepherd.

“Hi,
Heather, this is Ryan Shepherd,” he said.  “I was just wondering…did you come
by the station earlier today, because—”  There was a pause, and she could hear
him mumbling something muffled and irritated in the background, as if he was
covering the phone with his hand.  “Anyway, someone said—”  A loud burst of
laughter and shouting interrupted him.

“Never
mind,” he said.  “I’ll talk to you later.”

The
call ended, and she shrugged.  Sounded like a madhouse.  Oh, well, she supposed
cops had to cut up too, sometimes.  Relieve the tension or something.

Taking
a right turn onto Henderson, she suddenly swerved toward the curb and into a
luckily available parking space.  She needed to pick up her dry cleaning,
including the dress she’d worn to the Christmas party last night, as well as
some other of her favorite garments.

As
she got out of the car and stood scanning the street so she could cross, she
saw a familiar figure exit an office building and stride off down the street. 
Darting through traffic, and getting honked at by a guy in a black pickup, she
reached the other side of the street just as the person she had seen was
turning the corner.

“Mrs.
Dombrowski?” she called, trying not to sound too out of breath from her mad
dash.

Sheila
Dombrowski stopped and turned to face Heather.  Dressed in a tailored blue
business suit beneath a leather coat with a fur collar, her still-blond hair
swept into an elegant French twist, she gazed at Heather impatiently.  “Yes?”

“Mrs.
Dombrowski, I’m Heather Janke.”

“I
know who you are.”

“You—you
do?”

“You
own Donut Delights.  You were helping put my husband out of business.” 

“I
wasn’t trying to put anyone out of business.”

Sheila’s
mouth twisted into what was probably supposed to pass for a smile.  “Oh, don’t
worry about professing your innocence to me.  I bear you no ill will.  In fact,
I thank you.  That place was a money pit, thanks to Stan’s inept management of
it.”

“I’m
sorry for your loss,” Heather stammered, not sure what else to say.

“Don’t
be.  I’m not.  I never wanted that donut shop in the first place.”

“I
meant that I’m sorry for the loss of your husband.”

“Oh. 
Well.  Thank you,” she said, edging backward as if to turn away.

“Do
you plan to continue the franchise in Stan’s absence?”

“Ha! 
Are you kidding?  The sooner I can get out from under it, the better.  In fact,
I just came from my attorney’s office to sign papers relating to returning the
franchise to the parent company.  Due to the untimely death of the franchisee.”

“That’s
too bad,” Heather said.

“No,
it really isn’t.  It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time.  Only dear, departed
Stan insisted on hanging onto the franchise.  He didn’t seem to care that he
was running it into the ground.  If he even noticed.”

“Oh,
he noticed,” Heather said before she could help herself.

“Only
he blamed it on you, not himself,” Sheila said.  “Typical.”

“What
do you mean?”  Heather wrapped her arms around herself, shivering against the
chill wind.

“He
always blamed everything on everyone but himself.  If he was asked to leave the
Chamber of Commerce board, it was because of Gary Larkin, not his own
behavior.  If his business was failing, it was because of you, not him.  If his
marriage was failing, it was because I was having an affair, not because he
was—well, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.”

That’s
the second time I’ve heard that phrase in as many days, Heather thought. 
Aloud, she said, “Were you having an affair?”

“Not
that it’s any of your business, but no, I wasn’t,” Sheila said, her lips
tightening into a straight line.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have funeral
preparations to make.”  With an upward tilt of her regal head, she turned and
disappeared around the corner.

Was
there anybody Stan didn’t falsely accuse? Heather wondered as she dashed back
across the street to the cleaner’s.  He accused his wife of having an affair. 
He accused his accountant of embezzling money, accused me of trying to ruing
his business, accused a loyal employee of incompetence, accused the president
of the Chamber of Commerce of kicking him off the board for no good reason.

The
warm air enveloped Heather as she slipped inside the cleaner’s and shut the
door behind her.  What a sad way for him to live, she thought as she stepped
forward to give her name.

“We
could just buy filling,” Heather said, “but making our own makes the donuts
taste so much better.  Besides, that’s what customers come here for: the
homemade-ness, the originality, the quality.”

Maricela
nodded.  “And that’s why they keep coming back.”

“Precisely,”
Heather said to Maricela, Angelica, and Jung.  In a lull between customers, she
was teaching them how to make Wild Blueberry Pie donuts, including even making
the filling from scratch.  “So we don’t buy filling.  We make it.  Jung, hand
me the blueberries, would you please?”

Jung
passed a large, flat silver container down the prep counter to her.  Inside
were thousands of blueberries, all of which had been sprinkled with sugar so
that the sugar could draw the juice out of the berries, then mix with it, thus
producing a delicious, semi-natural syrup.

“Now
we need to stir these,” Heather said, “to make sure they’re all evenly coated
and mixed.”  She picked up a large, metal slotted spoon and began to stir
slowly and gently so that the berries wouldn’t become bruised or damaged.

The
bell above the door of the shop rang as a customer entered.  Heather glanced
up, but Maricela was already heading for the serving counter.  “She’s made
these before,” Heather said, “and they turned out great.  Okay, so we made sure
all the berries were coated in this syrup.  Hmm, looks like we need to thicken
it up a little.  You guys remember how to do that?”

As
both Jung and Angelica nodded, Heather realized that Maricela was standing at
her elbow.  “The customer asked for you specifically,” Maricela said.

“Okay,”
Heather said, then glanced toward Angelica and Jung.  “They’re thickening the
syrup.”

Maricela
nodded and traded places with Heather, who was then free to approach the front
counter.  “I’m Heather,” she said.  “How may I help you?”

“My 
name is Jackie Fielder,” the woman said.  “I’m—”

“—a
reporter for the Hillside Herald,” Heather finished for her.  “I know who you
are.  So what can I do for you?”

“I
was wondering if I could ask you a few questions,” Jackie said.

“About?”

“About
Stan Dombrowski.”

“How
is whatever I say going to be used?” Heather asked.  “Is it going to wind up in
print?”

“Maybe.” 
Jackie smiled pleasantly.  “It could mean good publicity for your store.”

“What
do you want to know?” Heather asked dubiously.

“Rumor
has it that you and Stan didn’t get along.”

“No
comment.”

“Really? 
No comment?”

“Really.”

“Rumor
also has it that the police consider you a suspect in his death.”

“Who
told you that?” Heather demanded.

“A
source.  Don’t you want to at least listen to my questions?  Maybe answer a
few?”

“No,
actually, I don’t want to answer any of your questions.  No comment.” 

“Don’t
you want to show the public you have nothing to hide?”

“I
think it’s time for you to go,” Heather said.  “Unless you’re a customer, you
have no further business here.”

Jackie
stepped back from the counter.  “Actually, I used to patronize Stan’s donut
shop,” she said.  She offered Heather a shark-like smile.  “Have a nice day.”

Heather
watched the reporter leave the shop, and only then did she realize her mouth
was hanging open.  She closed it and forced herself to draw a slow, deep breath
in through her nose and then to breathe out the same way.

“What
was that all about?” Jung asked, stepping up beside her.

“Looking
for a story where there isn’t one,” Heather said.  “Now let’s get back to
making those donuts.”

***

Two
hours later, she was leaning back in a leather recliner, soaking her feet in a
basin of warm water.  In the recliner next to her sat Amy, who eased her feet
into her own tub and let out a contented sigh.

“Water
good?” the diminutive Asian woman asked.

“Water
very good,” Amy said.

“I
let you soak,” the pedicurist said.  “I come back when you done.”

When
the woman had walked away and Amy and Heather were alone, Amy turned her head
toward her friend.  “So have you figured out whodunit yet?”

“Not
even,” Heather answered.  “Everywhere I turn, new suspects are popping up. 
Like today, when I stopped to pick up my dry cleaning?  I ran into Sheila
Dombrowski.”

“She
was picking up cleaning too?”

“Well,
no, actually, she was just coming from her lawyer’s office across the street.”

“And
you just happened to accidentally cross the street and run into her?”

“Something
like that.  Anyway, apparently Stan had accused her of cheating on him.”

“Was
she cheating?”

“She
said she wasn’t,” Heather said.

Amy
snorted.  “That’s what they all say.”

“She
also mentioned that Stan had accused Gary Larkin of kicking him off the Chamber
of Commerce board just because he was power hungry.”

“As
if Stan could be a threat to him.”

“I
know.  But still, Gary could have gotten angry.”

“You
think he killed Stan because he was angry that Stan accused him of being power
hungry?”

“Shh!”
Heather warned.  “No, probably not.  I’m just saying that everywhere I turn,
somebody else is cropping up as a suspect.”

“So
who do you think did it?”

“I
don’t know.  I mean, I know how angry people can get over false accusations.  I
was pretty angry myself.  But angry enough to kill him?  No.  But somebody
was.”

The
pedicurist returned with a towel over her arm and another pedicurist in tow. 
Each woman spread a towel in front of her customer at foot level.  “You put
your feet here,” she said. 

Heather
and Amy obeyed, and each had her feet gently blotted dry.  “Ahh, this is the
life,” Amy sighed.  “I could get used to this.”

They
fell silent as the pedicurists began work on their feet.  “Ha!  That tickles!”
Amy cried out a moment later, trying to stifle a giggle.

Her
pedicurist smiled.  “Lots of people say that.”

Amy
relaxed back into the chair.  “I’m going with you,” she said.

“Going
with me where?”

“To
the funeral.”

“Who
said I was going to the funeral?”

“You
didn’t have to say it.  I know you.  You’ll want to be there to see who else is
there.  Especially your suspects.”

“Okay,
you’re right,” Heather agreed.  “You do know me too well.  Yes, I’m going. 
I’ll pick you up at 9:30 tomorrow morning.”

***

That
evening, with her dog, Dave, snoring contentedly on the rug at her newly
pedicured feet, Heather laid a pad of paper and a pencil on the coffee table in
front of her.  Maybe if she could get her thoughts in order, she’d be able to
make heads or tails of Stan’s murder.

She
picked up the pen, twiddled it in her fingers, and wondered if Ryan Shepherd
was having any more luck figuring things out than she was.  Hopefully, he was. 
After all, he was the professional, and she merely the amateur with an
overactive tenacity gene that wouldn’t let her walk away from an unsolved
mystery.

STAN,
she wrote at the top of the paper in capital letters, and underlined it twice
for good measure.  What did she know about Stan?

When
“Here Comes the Sun” began to play from her cell phone, she picked it up, saw
Shepherd’s number, and accepted the call.  “Hello?”

“Heather? 
This is Ryan.  Ryan Shepherd.  I hope I’m not disrupting your evening.”

“I’m
sitting on the couch with my dog,” she said.  “Not much to disrupt tonight.”

“Did
you get my message?” he asked.

“Yes,
I did.  What was going on in the background?  Sounded like Animal House or
something.”

“That
was more or less it.  Minus the drinking.”

“That’s
good to know,” she said.  “So, yes, I got your message.  And, yes, I stopped by
the station earlier today.  But they said you weren’t there.  So I came to
work, and there you were.”

“You
didn’t leave your name?  At the station, I mean.”

“No,
I don’t think I did.”  She paused.  “So how did you know I was the one who
stopped by?”

“Oh,
I figured it out,” he said, suddenly sounding evasive.  What in the world?

“So…you
just wanted to know if I was the one who stopped by?”

“Pretty
much.  I figure since we talked afterward, you got whatever answers you
needed.”

“You
don’t give me many answers,” she said.

“I
give you what I can.”

“Yeah,
I know.”  Heather crunched the phone between her chin and shoulder as she
attempted to adjust the clip holding her long, curly hair up in a twist. 
Drat.  Crooked.  “I guess I’m just frustrated that I can’t figure out what’s
going on.  The suspects just keep piling up.  Oh, and I ran into Sheila
Dombrowski today.”

She
related the conversation between her and Sheila, including Sheila’s mention of
Stan’s accusations against both her and Gary Larkin.  Shepherd listened
quietly.

“Thanks
for telling me,” he said when she finished.  “Unfortunately, I don’t have much
I can tell you in return.”

“Tell
me who you think did it,” she said.

For
a moment, there was silence.  “You do have a suspect,” she said, curling her
legs up under her on the couch.  “Who is it?”

“Can’t
say,” he said.  “Not until I have proof.”

“Yeah,
I guess not,” she said.  “Well—and I know you’re the professional here—but is
there anything I can do to help?”

“I
appreciate that,” he said, sounding like he really did.  “If I think of something,
I’ll let you know.”

“Okay. 
You do that.  I want to help.”

“I
know you do.”  Again, a few beats of silence passed.  “Have a good night,
Heather.”

“You
too, Detective Shepherd.”

“You
can call me Ryan.”

“Okay,
Ryan.  Good night.”

A
stretchy, growly noise from Dave made Heather realize she was still sitting
staring at the phone in her hand.  She glanced down to see Dave looking at her
with one eye open, head cocked, as if to say, “What was that all about?”

“It
was nothing, Dave,” she said.  “Go back to sleep.”

Dave
willingly obliged, and Heather forced her attention back to the pad of paper
and pen.  Suspects, she wrote, and underlined it only once.  Then, she began to
make her list.