Cadbury Creme Murder (4 page)

“I
will,” Amy said.  “I’ll have him meet me at Chez Mac.  Very public.  Or maybe
you and Ryan can sit at a nearby table in case I need Ryan to rescue me.  Okay,
so I said I would let you go, but this time, I mean it.  Talk to you later.”

“Bye,”
she said.  She hung up, laid the phone beside the divided Styrofoam container
with her dinner in it, and realized she wasn’t hungry.  The knot in her stomach
had grown until it was the size of a boulder.

Swiftly,
she stood up, grabbed the Styrofoam container with the rest of her meal, and
placed it on the floor in front of Dave. “Here, Dave,” she said.  “You eat it. 
I’ve got things to do.”

She
grabbed her purse, keys, and cell phone, and got into her car.  Backing out of
her driveway, she turned and headed for Albertson’s.  It was always good to be
stocked up on groceries.  Might as well seize the opportunity and go get some.

“Okay,”
Heather said, “are you guys ready for this?”

She
stood at one of the long, stainless steel prep tables in the kitchen of Donut
Delights.  Jung, Maricela, and Angelica all stood in an expectant semicircle
around her.

“We’re
ready,” Jung said.

“Then
taste these,” Heather said, whipping the cover off a small tray that contained
three donuts.  Each donut was topped with an obviously sugary white icing and
crumbles of rich-looking chocolate.  “Behold…the Cadbury Crème donut.”

She
grinned as she saw her employees’ mouths drop open.  Angelica was the first one
to recover and reach for a donut.  “I try one,” she said.  She took a huge
bite, chewed for a couple seconds, then rolled her eyes heavenward in delight. 
“You make this Cadbury Crème?  Or you have to buy?”

“I
made it.  Go on, Maricela, Jung.  See what you think.”

As
they reached for the remaining donuts, Angelica asked, “We make these for
Easter?”

“Yes. 
They’re this year’s Easter donut.”

“When
we get started?”

“Right
now.”  Heather gestured to the prep table, on which she had arranged a large
box of pure cane sugar, some Karo syrup, vanilla flavoring, and a bit of salt. 
“Those are the only ingredients we need.  Making the crème is so easy.  And
addictive.  I may or may not have eaten a couple of the finished donuts.  Just
for quality control purposes, of course.”

***

Once
she had provided them with the recipe so they could begin, Heather ensconced
herself in her office to take care of some administrative tasks that needed
doing.  She much preferred interacting with her customers rather than sitting
at the computer.  But if she didn’t take care of the less desirable aspects of
running a business, soon there wouldn’t be any business to run.

Deciding
which ingredients to order from her various suppliers was actually kind of
fun.  She thought of it as a game, in a way.  On the one hand, she didn’t want
to order too much of a certain ingredient and either have it expire or have to
store it and let it take up space even when it wasn’t being used.  But on the
other hand, she didn’t want to order too little of an ingredient and find
herself unable to make her customers’ favorite donuts.  So placing orders with
suppliers was fine.

It
was paying bills that she found annoying.  That, and keeping records for tax
purposes.  Those two tasks, she didn’t find fun at all.

But
all of it was part and parcel of owning her own shop, and she wouldn’t trade
that privilege for anything in the world.  There was something incredibly
freeing about being her own boss.  She could make her own decisions.  She could
stand or fall on her own merits.  She was free to be creative in any way she
wished without having to seek someone else’s approval.  Best of all, she could
indulge her passion of turning eggs and sugar and syrup into gourmet creations
that provided a luxurious experience for her customers.

I
wonder what Ryan likes most about his job,
she thought. 
Solving mysteries?  Never knowing what
to expect next?  The challenge?

She
shook her head to put Ryan out of her mind just as someone knocked on her
closed door.  “Someone to see you,” came Angelica’s voice.

Heather
left her office and glanced toward the front of the shop.  Eva stood to one
side of the glass display cases, waiting for her.  “Hi, Eva,” she said, walking
over to her.  “What can I help you with?  Donuts?”

“No,
I have a favor to ask,” Eva said.  “But I think you might actually be quite
interested in doing me this favor.”

“Now
that’s the kind of favor I like.  What’s up?”

“I’m
on my way over to Verna’s house.  I would have asked you before, but I just got
the call myself.  Wait.  Let me start over.”  Eva paused, gathering her
thoughts.  “Verna’s son William called me this morning,” she continued.  “He
asked me if I would be willing to meet him at Verna’s house.  He wants me to go
through her home and pick out something I would like to have.  Something that
would remind me of her.”  Verna sniffled and smiled.

“So
how can I help you?”

“Would
you go with me?  I know it’s quite an imposition on your time, but I don’t want
to go alone.  And I thought you might like to see where Verna lived.  To see
where she…well, you know.”

“You’re
going right now?” Heather asked, with a glance back toward the kitchen.

“Yes. 
This was the time that worked out best for both William and me.”

“I’d
love to go with you,” she said suddenly.  “Let me grab my purse.  Do you want
to take your car or mine?”

“Oh,
we’ll take mine,” Eva said.  “It’s ready and waiting.”

“Okay. 
I’ll just be a sec.”  Heather hurried toward her office to grab her purse, hoping
it was a wise decision to take Eva’s car.  Eva was, what, pushing 80?  Could
she still drive?  Safely?

Heather
needn’t have worried.  Eva drove as well as Heather herself did.  Fifteen
minutes after getting into the car, they pulled into the driveway of Verna’s
house, right behind a black Ford F-150 pickup.

“That
must be William’s truck,” Eva said.

Sure
enough, as they got out of the car, a man approximately Heather’s age came out
the back door and approached them.  He was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and
khakis.  His eyes were red-rimmed.

Eva
held her arms open wide, and the two embraced.  “I’m so sorry about your
mother,” Eva said after a few moments. 

“Thank
you,” William said, drawing back and sniffling.  He glanced at Heather.

“This
is Heather Janke,” Eva said.  “She’s the friend I told you about.”

“Hi,”
Heather said, reaching out to shake his hand.  “I’m glad to meet you, but sorry
it has to be under such sad circumstances.”

William
nodded to her, attempting a small smile.  “Thank you for being here to support
Mrs. Schneider,” he said.  “Are you ladies ready to go in?”

***

Verna’s
house was small and neat.  Heather was reminded of the phrase “a place for
everything, and everything in its place.”  Stuck to Verna’s refrigerator with
magnets in the shape of farm animals were children’s drawings and paintings on
plain white paper, and colored pages ripped from coloring books.

“My
kids,” William said, noticing her looking at the artwork.  “Bella and Henry. 
They’re 7 and 5.”

“Is
that them?” she asked, pointing to a 4x6 picture held in place by a cow
magnet.  Two smiling children with dark brown hair like their father’s looked
straight into the camera.

“That’s
them,” he agreed.

“Your
mom must have been so proud,” she said gently.

Heather
jumped as several short, loud raps at the back door startled them all.  She and
Eva turned as William headed for the door and opened it.  “You’re Verna’s son,
ain’t ya?” came a raspy, abrasive voice.

Frowning,
Heather went to stand behind William, wondering who would talk in such a way to
a man who had just lost his mother.

“Yes,
sir.  Mr. Smith, right?”  He stuck out his hand to shake hands.

Smith
ignored the outstretched hand.  “Yeah, I’m Wilbur Smith.  Wanted to talk to
ya.”

“Would
you like to come in?”

“Ain’t
necessary.  What I got to say can be said right here.”

“Yes
sir.”

“You
interested in selling this place?”

What?
  For a brief moment, Heather wondered
if she’d spoken her surprise out loud.  Who was this man, and why was he asking
William if he wanted to sell his mother’s home before poor Verna was even
buried?

“I
don’t know.  I haven’t really had time to think about it,” William responded.

“Your
mother was stubborn.  I been tryin’ to buy this place off her for years.  But
she didn’t want to sell.  Now she’s gone, maybe you’ll do what’s right.”

Unable
to keep silent any longer, Heather stepped forward.  “Who in the world are you,
Mr. Smith?  And don’t you have any better manners than to approach a grieving
son like this?”

“Ain’t
none of your business, Missy,” Smith said, turning to her, his eyes blazing.

“Mr.
Smith lives next door,” William interjected, looking relieved that she was now
dealing with the irascible neighbor.

“You
just made it my business, sir,” she said.  “Why do you want to buy Mrs. Dixon’s
property, anyway?”

“That
ain’t none of your business either!” he spat. 

“But
it’s
my
business,” William said, seeming emboldened by Heather’s
support.  “Why do you want to buy Mom’s property?”

“Maybe
I want to expand my holdings.  I’ll give you what this place is worth.  Which
ain’t very much.”

“Mr.
Smith, I think this conversation is over,” William said firmly.  “If I ever do
decide to sell, I’ll be sure and remember that you’re interested.”

“No,”
Smith said, “this
ain’t
over.  Not by a long shot.  Not ‘til you come to
your senses and do what’s right.”  He turned and stomped off toward his own
property.

William
shut and locked the door, and the three of them turned away.  “The nerve of
that man!” Eva sputtered.  “To talk to you like that
ever
, and
especially when your precious mother just passed!”

“Thank
you for jumping in when you did,” he said to Heather.  “I guess I was a little
taken aback.”

“He’s
been trying to buy your mother’s property for years?” she asked.

“Apparently
he’d come over here periodically and do what he just did now: stand on the back
porch and tell her to come to her senses.”

“Why
do you think he wants this property so much?”

“Mom
thought it was because of her mineral rights.  She received a good-sized check
every month.”

“Does
Mr. Smith even have enough money to buy her property?”

“Who
knows?” William said.  “He always seemed to think he did.”

I
wonder how much that check was every month,
Heather thought. 
Was it enough to push her
bad-tempered neighbor over the edge when she wouldn’t sell?  Was it reason
enough for him to kill her?

Heather
stood before her tiny closet, searching for the particular skirt she wanted to
wear tonight but not finding it. 
Why did they make closets so small in
older homes?
she wondered for the thousandth time. 
People back then had
to have a place to store their clothes too, didn’t they?

She
dragged her wicker hamper out into the bedroom and began pawing through it. 
Ah, there was the skirt she was looking for.  Rats.  She didn’t remember
wearing it, but apparently, she had.  Oh, well.  She’d choose something else
for tonight.

After
pushing the hamper back into her closet and staring at her selection of clothes
for awhile longer, she finally gave up, snatched a long, flowing skirt in muted
colors off its hanger, and grabbed a matching blouse with peasant sleeves.  Why
was she having so much trouble making even simple decisions the last few days? 
Sure, she wanted to look nice, but it wasn’t like she cared all that much about
clothes—not like Amy did.

Sitting
down on the edge of her bed, she held the outfit in her lap and fiddled with
the fabric.  She knew what was wrong, of course.  It was that she hadn’t heard
from Ryan for a couple days, not since they ate at Giovanni’s.  She had grown
used to, if not seeing him every day, at least hearing from him by text or
phone.  The silence of the last two days was something new.  And it didn’t feel
right.

She’d
texted him once but had received no response.  Well, she wasn’t going to chase
him.  Wasn’t going to beg.

And
she wasn’t going to sit around stewing about it, either, she decided, abruptly
standing up and walking over to her dresser where she kept her jewelry.  She
was going to go to the symphony with Amy tonight. 
That knotted bangle
bracelet would go well with my outfit
, she decided, and lifted it off the
holder
.
 

She
was going to have a good time. 
So would those dangly earrings
, she
decided, scooping them up too.

And
she was
not
going to think about Detective Ryan Shepherd.

***

“So
have you heard from Ryan lately?” Amy asked.

Heather
glanced at her and tried to sound matter-of-fact.  “Not really.  He’s probably
pretty busy working on the Verna Dixon case right now.”

“Uh-oh,”
Amy said as she brought the car to a stop at a light.  “Trouble in paradise?”

“I
don’t know,” Heather sighed, frustrated.  “I don’t know what’s going on with
him.  Lately he’s seemed more—distant.  Or something.  I just don’t know.”

“Have
you talked to him about it?”

“No. 
I don’t want to seem needy or anything.”

“But
you have a right to know,” Amy said as the light changed and the line of cars
began to pull forward.  “He needs to be up front with you.”

“It
just didn’t feel right to mention it.  I mean, we’re just getting our
relationship off the ground.”

“Which
is all the more reason things need to be clear between the two of you.”

“So
what do I do?  Do I call him and give him the dreaded ‘We need to talk’ line?”

“Why
not?”

“I
don’t know.”  Heather shrugged.  “Maybe you’re right.”

***

She
did her best not to think about Ryan any more on the way to the Performing Arts
Center, or as they entered the lobby where several patrons stood chatting in
the remaining minute before the concert.  But out of the corner of her eye, she
recognized a familiar figure.  “Ryan?” she said, surprised. 

Fortunately,
the man hadn’t heard her, because as he turned away from the bar where he’d
ordered a pre-concert drink, she realized that he wasn’t Ryan after all. 
Didn’t even look much like him, really, when she thought about it.

Amy
was watching her, an
I-knew-it
expression on her face.  “Do you need to
call him before the concert starts so that you can actually enjoy it?” Amy
asked.

“No,”
Heather said.  “I’m not calling him.  I’ll be fine once the music starts.”

“If
you’re sure,” Amy said doubtfully.

Entering
the concert hall, they accepted programs from an usher and allowed him to point
them toward their seats.  Theirs were decent seats, in the first balcony, but
at least close to center.  They sat down, and Heather began to flip through her
program to keep herself occupied.

On
the first page was a listing of all the major donors to the Hillside Council
for the Fine Arts.  At the bottom of the list was a special notation and a head
shot of a man dressed in a tuxedo and smiling.  Apparently, he had received
some special mention from the Council for his “generosity and commitment to the
arts,” blah, blah, blah. 
Dr. Edward J. Banner
, read the caption under
the picture.

“You
ever heard of this Banner guy?” Heather asked Amy.

“Nope. 
Must be some big-bucks donor.”

“Guess
so.”

The
house lights dimmed, then rose; dimmed, then rose.  Five more minutes.  Heather
flipped back to the front of her program. 
An Evening with Tchaikovsky
,
read the title.

The
1812 Overture was one of Heather’s favorite musical works.  Tonight, it was to
be played at the end of the program. 
Fitting
, she thought. 
I can’t
wait.

Before
long, the lights dimmed and stayed down.  The concertmaster strode out onto the
stage, holding his violin, and the audience applauded.  He acknowledged the
applause by bowing, then took his seat.  In the middle of the assembled
musicians, the oboist played an A, and the other musicians began to tune their
instruments. 

When
they had finished, there was a brief silence.  Then, the conductor walked out
from the wings, and again, the audience applauded.  He bowed to the audience,
then shook hands with the concertmaster before he took his place on the podium
and raised his baton, ready to give the downbeat.

There
was a moment of hushed silence before the baton descended in a sweeping arc and
the music began.

***

As
the last notes of the 1812 Overture died away, the audience rose to its feet,
clapping heartily.  “Bravo!” someone near the front shouted, and someone else
on one side echoed him.  “Bravo!”

The
applause continued, and the conductor returned to the stage to take another
bow.  The applause grew in intensity.  “Want to slip out and go for drinks?”
Amy asked, leaning towards her to be heard.

“Sure.” 
Heather reached down and grabbed her purse, and they slipped out past the other
patrons in their row, who were still applauding. 

***

Because
they were two of the first people to leave the concert hall and reach their
car, they were able to exit the parking lot easily.  Ten minutes later, they
were seated at their favorite pub, a drink in front of each of them.

“So
if you haven’t talked to Ryan, I’m guessing you don’t know the latest on the
investigation,” Amy said, taking a sip of her mojito.

“No,”
Heather agreed.  “And all I’ve found is that nobody who knew Verna seems to
have any idea who would have wanted to kill her.”

“Really,
nobody knows anything?” Amy said.  “Obviously
somebody
wanted to kill
her.”

“Obviously. 
But who?  I told you about Caring Hearts, the hospice people, and how Verna got
one of the volunteers fired, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. 
But getting fired from a volunteer organization doesn’t seem worth killing
somebody over.”

“True. 
But maybe this other volunteer thought Verna had ruined her reputation.  Or
maybe she was afraid she’d be brought up on criminal charges.”

Amy
shrugged.  “Maybe.  Who else is on the suspect list?”

“I
guess I’d have to list her neighbor, Mr. Smith.  Apparently he wanted to buy
her property, possibly for the mineral rights.  She kept refusing to sell.  He
was pretty angry.  And he has a temper.”

“Sounds
like he’s Suspect Numero Uno so far.”

“I
guess.  I also asked around about Verna at the hospital.  But all they said was
that she was a great person.  Liked to sit with patients who didn’t have
anyone.  They said she took a couple days off after one of her favorite
patients died, but they had thought she would be back.  But then she was
murdered.”

“So
basically, you have nobody.”

“Pretty
much.”

“Hmm.” 
Amy sipped her drink and frowned thoughtfully.  “So a woman is dead whom just
about everybody liked, and nobody seems to have had a reason to kill her.”

Heather
nodded glumly. 

“Don’t
give up,” Amy urged.  “Start thinking about this.  What
do
you know?”

“Well,
Verna was shot right about the time the storm was gearing up.  Apparently, she
had gone out to check on her chickens.  She was found on her back, feet pointed
toward the house.  So probably, somebody came up behind her as she was hurrying
to the chicken coop.  She turned, they argued, and the person shot her.  Or
maybe there was no argument.  Maybe the killer just got down to business.”

“You
told me before that she was shot in the chest.  Dead center, no pun intended.”

“Right.”

“So
apparently the killer was someone who’s a good shot.”

“Apparently
so, which probably means he or she had a lot of experience with guns.”

“Did
either the hospice employee or the crabby neighbor have experience?”

“I
don’t know.  I would imagine Mr. Smith does, at least.  He lives in the
country, and he’s a good ol’ boy.”

“But
why would somebody put a stick of wood in the bullet hole?” Amy asked.  “I
mean, even I would know that the truth would be discovered before long.”

“Maybe
they hoped to confuse the issues for a little while.  Or maybe they wanted it
to look like the killer was a novice gun-user, someone who would think they
could fool the police that way.”

“Crazy,”
Amy said, taking another sip of her drink.  “This whole thing is crazy.”

“It
sure is,” Heather said.  “What I need to do is find out some things from Ryan.”

“There
you go.  That gives you a reason to call him.  You won’t look needy.  So call. 
See what he says.”

“Maybe
I will,” Heather said slowly, a spark of determination flickering in her
chest.  If he was avoiding her, she might as well find out sooner rather than
later.  At least then, they could stop playing games.  “In fact, I think I’ll
call him right now.”

“Tell
him to meet you at your place,” Amy said.  “Better to be on home turf.”