She was ready to snap at me when she looked up and noticed my grin. "You're incorrigible, you know that, don't you?"
"I learned from the best, Momma."
She accepted it for the apology it was, and smiled. "So, what should we have? How do waffles sound?"
That was our standby meal, something we made when we were both too tired to do much of anything
else, and didn't want to go out and face the world.
"That sounds great. Do you mind if I grab a shower first?"
"Take your time. I'll have the first one ready by the time you're back downstairs."
Okay, I admit it, it's not all bad living back home with my mother. I took a long, hot shower--getting the day's cooking smells out of my hair--and came back into the kitchen a new woman, or at least an improved version of the old one.
"That smells divine," I said as the aroma of fresh waffles filled the air. The table was set for two, with a stick of real butter resting between them. Cinnamon apples simmered on the stove, with syrup bubbling gently beside them. One waffle was already out, golden and crisp, sitting on my plate, just waiting for me.
"Do you want to split the first one?" I asked, with less than complete sincerity.
"No, you go ahead."
I didn't even wait for her to change her mind.
It was exactly what I needed, and I was going to enjoy every single bite.
I'll give Momma credit; she waited until I was finished before she started her grand inquisition.
Though just barely.
I was swallowing the last bite when she said, "So, tell me all about it."
"About what?"
She frowned. "Don't be thick, Suzanne. It must have been dreadful finding that body this morning,
all alone and in the darkness. I didn't push you this morning so you could have time to deal with what happened, but surely you've come to terms with it by now."
I shrugged. "I've had better days, I'm willing to admit that."
As we started to clean up, she asked, "Do the police have any clues?"
"I don't know, Momma, but you could find out, couldn't you? Why don't you give the chief a call? I'm sure he'd be happier talking to you about it than he would be discussing it with me."
She frowned for a split second, then nodded her acceptance. "If you need me to phone Phillip, I will."
I couldn't believe my mother was willing to make that kind of sacrifice for me, since I knew--more than anyone else--how hard it would be for her to pick up the telephone and call Chief Martin. I couldn't bring myself to do it.
"No, it hasn't come to that yet, but I may take you up on your offer later."
"I'm more than happy to do whatever I can to help. The important thing now is to put it all behind you and forget that this morning ever happened."
"All I can do is try," I said.
I don't know how she does it, but my mother has a built-in lie detector when it comes to me. I hadn't gotten away with stealing Sally Renshaw's crayons in kindergarten, and I wasn't going to slip my detecting activities past her today.
She frowned at me a second, then asked, "Suzanne, what are you up to?"
"Me? Why do I have to be up to something?" I
knew that the more I stalled, the worse it would get, but I couldn't bring myself to chronicle my day's activities just yet, either.
She didn't say a word, but she didn't have to. That look--the one that managed to say she was disappointed in me, that she had hoped for better from me, and that she somehow knew I'd turn out this way, all wrapped into one gaze--always broke me down.
"Fine. If you must know, I'm trying to figure out what happened. Patrick was a customer of mine, and a friend, and I'm not going to let this go."
"There's more to it than that, though, isn't there?"
I couldn't believe how well she could read me, but then again, she'd had lots of practice. "Momma, I turned on my store lights as the body hit the pavement. I didn't mean to, but it lit up the night. Even if I didn't see who did it, how can I be sure that the killer knows that? I've got a bad feeling that whoever dumped Patrick Blaine's body in front of my shop is coming after me next. I'm trying to find out who did it before they decide to wrap me up as a loose end. I knew Patrick, so whoever chose to dispose of him did it in a way that directly involved me."
"That's nonsense," she said sternly.
"I wish I believed that, but if I'm being honest with myself, I have to admit that there's a chance it's true," I said. "Not taking this threat seriously is just foolish."
"What's foolish is that you're attempting to solve the case yourself. Suzanne, you're a donut maker, not a detective."
That was all the scolding I was willing to take. "There's nothing that says I can't do both."
She reached for the telephone, but I managed to catch her hand before she could grab it. "Momma, who are you calling?"
"I'm going to find out what Phillip is doing about this case so you'll stop meddling in police business."
As far as I knew, Momma was the only one in town who didn't call the police chief Martin, and that probably included his own wife.
"Like I told you before, I don't need his help," I said.
"I believe otherwise," she snapped. "Now will you kindly remove your hand so I can use my own telephone?"
"Fine," I said, knowing I'd already lost the battle. "You can call him if you want to, but I'm not going to be here to listen to it."
I grabbed my keys off the counter, and she asked, "Where do you think you are going, young lady?"
"I'm taking a walk in the park," I snapped. That was one of the nicest things about our house. It was close enough to downtown--and my shop--so I could walk to work on pretty mornings if I wanted, and take a stroll across the street in the city park on my way home, though I normally limited those forays to when it was at least a little warmer, and a whole lot lighter out.
Momma said, "Suzanne, it's dark and it's cold outside. Have you lost your mind completely?"
"Apparently. I moved back in with my mother in my thirties. I'm pretty sure that qualifies as going over the bend in most circles."
I stormed out, not even sure why I was so angry
with her. Was it because she was calling her former beau, something I knew she hated doing, or was it because she was right? Sometimes I find myself getting angriest when people call me on my behavior. Did I have any business tracking down a killer on my own?
Honestly, no matter what my mother thought, I didn't have much choice. Sure, I would have preferred that whoever dumped Patrick Blaine's body had done it on the other side of town, but they hadn't. Whether the choice had been planned or random, I was drawn into it, whether I liked it or not. The fact that Patrick had been a customer of mine, and someone I'd liked, just made things worse.
What I wasn't going to do was be a victim and wait for a blow that might or might not ever come. I couldn't spend the rest of the day looking over my shoulder, let alone the rest of my life.
As expected, the park was deserted. I was freezing, and I was getting a massive headache to add to the mix. I needed to go home, patch things up with my mother, and see if I could come up with a plan for tomorrow. If not, it would be time to make the donuts again soon enough, and if I didn't get at least six hours of sleep, I'd be worthless the next day.
My phone was ringing when I got back to my room, a personal line I'd had installed the day I'd moved in. Cell phones were nice, but I needed a land-line for my computer, and I wasn't about to tie up Momma's phone while I was online. When I wasn't using the Internet, it served as a way for my friends to get in touch with me, since--likely as not--my cell
phone battery would be in dire need of recharging, and they could always leave me a message on my machine.
I should have let the machine pick it up.
At least then I would have had a record of the threat.
After I said hello, a voice said, "Stop digging into the murder, or you are going to be next. This has nothing to do with you. Make sure it stays that way."
The caller, having whispered his warning, hung up.
Evidently, whoever had killed Patrick Blaine was aware of what I'd been up to after work today. The warning was clear enough, and from the hissed words, I didn't doubt they were sincere. Anybody with a lick of common sense would stop now--I fully realized that--but how could I be sure the caller would leave me alone, even if I did as I was told? It might just be a way to get me to back off until he could finish me off without arousing suspicion. Then again, I knew that life would be better if I could just drop it.
But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Having known Patrick, and seeing his body hit the street, was enough to keep me digging, and the telephone threat just meant that I'd touched a nerve somewhere.
If only I knew where.
My alarm clock stays on the other side of my bedroom, a measure I had to take after destroying two others by slamming them on the floor to get them to shut up. One-fifteen in the morning is too early for anyone with any sense to be getting out of bed.
I'd grown somewhat accustomed to the hours, but it was nothing I'd ever relish.
Pulling on jeans and a polo shirt, I grabbed a quick bowl of cereal, then I set off for the shop. It was freezing, but what did I expect? We were in the throes of March, which in our part of North Carolina meant cold weather. We'd even had a snow flurry a few days before, though it hadn't amounted to much. I thought about walking to the shop anyway, as a way to wake up more than anything else, but there were too many shadows out there for my taste. I got into my Jeep and drove to Donut Hearts. I usually parked in back of the old depot building to leave space up front for my customers, but today I was going to break that rule. Leaving my headlights on as the Jeep was pointed toward the front door, I unlocked it, disengaged the alarm, and turned on every light in the place. After that, I cut the lights on the Jeep and raced back into the store, not really breathing again until I was safely inside. There was a lot of glass up front, and I knew it wouldn't slow down anybody determined to get me, but I still felt a level of comfort knowing that at least they couldn't sneak up on me.
I hit the start button as I walked past the coffeepot, then turned the deep fryer on in the kitchen and set the temperature to 300 degrees. It was Wednesday, and I make old-fashioned donuts on Wednesdays and Fridays. As the oil heated, I checked the answering machine on my desk for any last-minute orders. It's amazing how many people think they can get four or five dozen donuts for parties, fund-raisers, or office breakfasts without warning me ahead of time.
Dunkin' Donuts and Krispy Kreme might be able to do it, but I run a small operation, and I need some kind of warning, or it can throw my whole day off.
Sure enough, a woman's voice was on the machine, and through the constant background noise of kids yelling and screaming, she ordered six dozen glazed donuts with sprinkles and confectionary worms. I had the sprinkles, though I didn't think I'd ever put them on glazed donuts before, but she was on her own for the worms. There are some things even I won't do to a donut.
I was taking down the particulars when I heard someone banging on the front door. My hand automatically reached for my largest rolling pin--a ten-pound maple monster--as I peeked around the corner. It was time to stop running.
If whoever was after me was looking for a fight, they'd just found one.
"Emma, why didn't you use your keys?" I asked my assistant as I let her in through the front door. She was petite, with fine red hair, freckles that sparkled when she blushed, and pale blue eyes. Emma was saving money for college by working at my donut shop, and I didn't know what I was going to do without her when she finally made enough to head off to school. I'd have to hire someone else. One day a week making donuts by myself was plenty of experience to tell me that I couldn't sustain it on a regular basis or I'd kill myself from overwork.
"I left my key ring on my dresser at home," Emma said sheepishly.
"Then how did you get here?" I looked outside, but couldn't see her car anywhere.
"Don't bother looking; it's in the shop again. Dad dropped me off."
"I bet he just loved getting up in the middle of the night to do that," I said. Emma's father, Ray, was the editor of the
April Springs Sentinel
, a small paper known more for its advertisements than its in-depth reporting.
"Let's just say that he was less than pleased, and leave it at that. He's working on some ultra hush-hush story about local police corruption, and he's driving us all crazy with it."
"Is that true?" The thought of corruption in our tiny little North Carolina town made me nervous.
"I'd be totally shocked if it was. Dad's always going off on one wild-goose chase or another looking for a Pulitzer Prize-winning story that he's never going to find."
Emma hung her coat on the rack, then said, "I'm so sorry I didn't call you yesterday, but I was out of town, and my dear old dad didn't think it was newsworthy enough to tell me what happened until he dropped me off just now."
"How did he find out about the telephone threat? I haven't even told anyone about that yet." Was there some kind of tap on my telephone, or did he know who had made the call?
Emma looked shocked by the news. "You were threatened, too? I was talking about finding Patrick Blaine's body in front of the shop. I think Dad intentionally didn't tell me because he thought it would
worry me. You know what? He was right. So, tell me about this call." Emma's voice went into a whole other octave when she was excited, and she was clearly agitated now.
Reluctantly, I admitted, "Someone called my house and tried to intimidate me last night."
