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

“That’s
what I wanted to talk to you about,” Shepherd said.  “Meet me at your shop.”

“Well,
I—okay,” she said.  “I’m about two or three minutes away.”

“I’m
closer,” he said.  “I’ll wait until you get there.”

“I
usually park in back.  You won’t see me.”

“I
know where you park,” he said.  “I’ll meet you there.”

Heather
hung up and dropped the phone back into her purse.  He knew where she parked? 
Well…okay.  She supposed that as a detective, he’d have to notice things.

She
put the car in reverse, backed out, and left the parking lot.  Waited for a
break in traffic and pulled out into the street.  Turned right, toward Donut
Delights.

And
toward a meeting with Detective Ryan Shepherd about a murder.

Again.

Sure
enough, when she pulled into her usual parking space at the rear of her shop,
Shepherd’s car was already waiting nearby.  As she got out and went up the
steps to the tiny back porch, he followed her.

Neither
one of them spoke until she had unlocked the door and preceded him inside. 
“Why don’t you wait in my office?” she said, gesturing in that direction. 
“I’ll be right there.”

Shepherd
nodded and headed that direction as she grabbed a tray, set two small plates on
it, and placed one Southern Pecan Pie donut on each plate.  She added two cups
of coffee, tossed some packets of Splenda, sugar, and creamer onto the tray,
and carried the whole thing into her office.

“Here,”
she said, setting the tray on her desk and closing the door behind her.  “On
the house.”

Shepherd
glanced down at the donut, then up at her.  She waited for him to say
something, but he didn’t.  The silence stretched out longer.

“You
could at least say ‘thank you,’” she said.

“Thank
you,” he said, still making no move to touch the donut.

“What?”
she said.  “What’s the problem?”

“Is
this some kind of a ‘give the cop coffee and a donut’ thing?”

“Just
eat the donut and be grateful,” she said, dropping into her chair.

Shepherd
raised an eyebrow at her and picked up the donut.  He took one delicate bite
out of it, chewed slowly, and swallowed.  “It’s good,” he said grudgingly.

“Of
course, it’s good,” she said.  “It’s a gourmet donut.  Best donut you’ll get
within a hundred miles.  It’s even won prizes.”

“There
are competitions for donuts?”

“Yeah,”
she said.  “Jeez.  Forget it.  Don’t eat it if you don’t want to.”

“I
want to,” he said, taking another bite.

She
waited for him to chew and swallow that bite, too, before she said, “So what
exactly did you want to talk to me about?”

“How
long have you known Stan Dombrowski?” he asked.

“Four
years.  Ever since I moved back home and opened my shop.”

“What’s
your relationship been like?”

“Adversarial. 
Like his relationships with everyone else seem to be.”

“Why
is yours adversarial?”

“One
thing after another,” she said.  “First, he came over and told me we didn’t
need another donut shop in town.  Told me I couldn’t possibly make it
economically with the prices I was charging.  Said people in Hillside don’t
need gourmet donuts because we aren’t a hoity-toity community.  Said people
here like the good ol’ standbys just fine.”

“What
else happened between the two of you?”

“Sometimes,
he would come harangue me about my prices—as if it was any of his business. 
Other times, he’d come in and complain about the quality of my donuts—as if he
ever had any.  Once, he filed a complaint on me that someone had gotten sick
from eating here.  The health inspector, who, fortunately, was sympathetic to
me, told me it was Stan.  Whenever he would see me somewhere in town, which,
thank God, wasn’t often, he’d make it a point to snub me.  Lately, he’d started
taking out ads in the Herald touting his shop as having the best donuts in
town.  ‘Donuts you can trust the quality of.’  That sort of thing.”

“And
you took that as being directed against you?”

“Yeah,
being as the ads said something about ‘better than any other donut shop in
town.’  But there’s only one other shop in town.  Mine.”

“Tell
me what happened yesterday morning,” Shepherd said.

“Stan
came blowing into my shop shouting at me.  He accused me of trying to run him
out of business.  I told him the conversation was over, and he said we were
going to keep talking about it until I ceased and desisted.  I finally told him
if he kept disturbing my customers, I was going to call the police.  As he was
going out the door, he shouted at me that ‘this’ wasn’t over by a long shot.”

“That’s
pretty much what I heard,” Shepherd said.

“You
heard about it?”

“I
heard that the two of you had a pretty public argument.”

“We
didn’t have an argument.  I got yelled at.  Big difference.”

He
glanced down at his notebook in his lap, then back up at her.  “Where did you
go after you left your shop yesterday?”

“Home. 
I had to let Dave out.”

“Dave. 
Your dog.”

“Yep.”

“Did
you leave your house at any point after that?”

“No. 
Well, to go outside into the back yard, but I guess that’s not what you meant.”

“So
you went straight home after work, and you didn’t leave the house until when,
when you came to work this morning?”

“That’s
right,” she said, frowning.

“Did
you have anyone over?”

“What
business is—” she began, but stopped when she felt her stomach clench into a
tight knot.  “Wait a minute,” she said.  “You want to know if I have an alibi.”

Shepherd
nodded.

“Well,
I don’t.  I was supposed to go to an art show where my friend Amy was one of
the featured artists.  But I stayed home.  I didn’t feel like going and making
nice with a bunch of strangers.”

“Because
you were angry.”

“Yes,”
she said, hating the potential implications.  “I’m a suspect, aren’t I?”

He
shrugged.  “Everyone’s a suspect until proven otherwise,” he said.

“But
you’re not looking at me as one part of ‘everyone,’ are you?  You’re looking at
me as someone you think might have really killed him.”

“No,”
he said.  “I don’t think you killed him.  Which is why it’s bad that you don’t
have an alibi.”

“You’re
telling me,” she said.

They
sat in silence for a moment.  “So what happens next?” she asked.  “Do you tell
me not to leave town, like you did last time?”

He
winced.  “I didn’t say it exactly that way.”

“Well,
for your information, I’m not planning on leaving town.  I’ll be right here in
good ol’ Hillside.  You can investigate me to your heart’s content.”

“Heather,
didn’t you hear me?  I said I don’t think you did it.”

She
held his gaze for a moment, saw that he was sincere.  “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re
welcome,” he said.  “Now, aren’t you going to ask me anything about the murder?”

“I
get to do that?” she asked.

“You
can always ask.”

“All
righty, then.  How was he killed?”

“There
was blunt force trauma to the back of the head.  That may or may not have
killed him.  We’re waiting on the autopsy to establish whether he died from the
trauma or from suffocation.”

“You
mean he might have suffocated inside the deep freeze?”

“It’s
a possibility.” 

Heather
shuddered.  “What an awful way to go.”

“That
it would be, indeed,” he said.  He stood up, and she did, too.  “Thank you for
your time,” he said.  “I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”

“Please
do,” she said. 

***

When
he had gone, she fished her purse out of the bottom drawer of her desk,
retrieved her cell phone, and dialed Amy’s number.  It rang once and then Amy’s
voice said, “Hi!  You have reached Amy….”

Heather
sighed, waited through the recording, then left a message for Amy to call her
back.  She dropped the phone back in her purse, shut the desk drawer, and went
out into the kitchen.  Grabbing a coffee pot, she headed into the dining room
to refill customers’ cups.

Only
two customers needed more coffee.  When she came to Eva’s regular table by the
window, Eva put a hand over her coffee cup and said, “Do you have a moment to
sit down?”

She
sat down across from her favorite customer, a tiny, sweet-faced German woman
with the most beautiful silver hair Heather had ever seen.  Eva smiled at her. 
“How are you today?” she asked.

Heather
shrugged.  “Okay.  Can’t complain.”

“I
heard about what happened yesterday,” Eva said, taking a sip of her coffee.

“You
mean when Stan came in here?”

“Was
there something else?”

“Stan
was murdered last night,” she said.

“Oh,
good heavens,” Eva muttered.  “That’s terrible.”

“Someone
conked him over the head and shoved him into his deep freeze.”

Eva
grimaced and waited for her to continue.

She
leaned toward Eva and spoke in a whisper.  “And the police think I might have
killed him.”

Eva
gasped.  “Surely not!”

“Well,
Detective Shepherd says he doesn’t really think I did it.  But he still has to
investigate me.  And the problem is that I was home by myself yesterday,
stewing about Stan.  I have no alibi.”  She spread her hands wide in a helpless
gesture.

“Is
Detective Shepherd that handsome officer who keeps coming in here?” Eva asked.

“Well,
yes.  He is.”

“Hmm.” 
Eva paused, thinking.  “And he doesn’t think you did it.”

“Right.”

“So
you have nothing to worry about.”  Eva reached across the table and patted her
hand.  “Of course he has to investigate you.  He has to investigate everyone
the victim came in contact with during the last 24 hours.”  Eva raised her
napkin to her lips and delicately blotted them.  “I know these things.  I watch
CSI.”

Visions
of the elderly widow sitting in a small apartment watching the crime scene show
made Heather grin.  “I suppose you’re right,” she said.

“I
know I’m right,” Evan said confidently.  “He would be remiss in his duty if he
didn’t ask you what you were doing last night.  Especially after you had that
big argument right here in front of all your customers.”

Heather
chose not to correct Eva’s use of the word ‘argument.’  “You always have a way
of making me feel better,” she said.  “Thanks for that.”

“You’re
welcome,” Eva said. 

But
as Heather was walking back toward the kitchen to start work on a batch of
Strawberry Shortcake donuts, her mind was whirling in a new direction. 

If
I didn’t kill him—and I didn’t!—then who did?