Maple Frosted Murder (Donut Hole 2) (3 page)

Heather
tucked her chin into the collar of her coat and darted across the parking lot
toward the automatic doors.  Once inside, she shivered, quickly extricated a
shopping cart from the long line of carts, and pushed her cart further into the
store, toward the bakery.

She
always felt awkward buying items from the bakery section.  After all, she owned
a donut shop.  Shouldn’t she be able to bake things?

But
donuts were a whole different ballgame from, in this case, pies.  She needed a
pie to take to the Hillside Council for the Fine Arts Christmas party tonight. 
And she definitely didn’t want to take a pie that looked like the last one
she’d tried to make herself.

Unfortunately,
her grandmother’s talent for all things baked hadn’t been passed down to her. 
The only bakery item she could create to be consistently scrumptious was
donuts.  Oh, well.  At least she’d inherited enough of MaMaw’s abilities to be
able to open her own shop and make a living.

The
first notes of “Here Comes the Sun” floated up from her purse.  She grabbed her
phone, saw Amy’s number, and accepted the call.  “Hello?”

“Girl! 
What do you mean the police suspect you?  How could they?  Is it that Detective
Shepherd?  Is he the one harassing you?”

“He’s
not harassing me,” she said, “and he doesn’t really suspect me.  He just has to
investigate everyone the victim had contact with in the past 24 hours.”

There
was a pause as Amy digested this.  “I guess so,” Amy said.  “At least, that’s
what they do on CSI.”  Another pause.  “Well, you certainly sound better than
you did when you left me that voice mail,” she said.  “Are you sure you don’t
need to talk?”

“I
can’t right now.  I’m at the grocery store picking up a pie for tonight and
some other stuff.”

“Get
a veggie tray for me, would you?  I’m supposed to bring one, and I haven’t had
time to go out.  I’m working on an intricate piece.”

“Sure. 
No problem.  See you tonight?”

“You
better believe it.  We’ll talk there.”

Heather
realized she had stopped right in the middle of an aisle.  Another customer was
waiting politely behind her.  She pushed her cart forward and located the pie
section.  As she stood there trying to decide which variety looked most
impressive, she heard voices coming from the bakery counter just behind her.

“I
was going to pick up some of those gourmet donuts from that donut shop on Oak
Lane,” someone said.  “But not after what I heard about that place.”

Heather
sneaked a glance behind her to see a store employee handing a white box across
the counter to a middle-aged woman in a long, heavy coat.  She glanced away as
the employee said, “Oh, really?”

“I
heard they got cited for health department violations,” the customer said. 
“God only knows what goes on in that place.”

Health
violations?

“Who
knows?” the employee said.  “Well, have a nice day.”

Heather
forced herself not to look up as the woman pushed a cart past her.  She could
almost feel the steam coming out of her ears.  Health department violations? 
No way!  Where in the world had the woman heard that?

Maybe
from Stan?  Heather chuffed out a disgusted breath.  Probably.  But now, she’d
probably never know.  Oh, well.  At least, if it was Stan, he wouldn’t be
spreading any more rumors about her and her products.

Wonder
how many other people heard that and maybe believed it? she fumed as she pushed
her cart toward the deli for Amy’s veggie tray.  Probably not too many, she
decided as she grabbed the first veggie tray she saw.  Business has been okay
lately.  Better than okay, in fact.  It’s been great.  And besides, my
customers are loyal.  They know me. 

Stan’s
jealousy and underhanded tactics hadn’t had the effect he apparently desired. 
Not against her, anyway.  But how many more people had Stan made accusations
against?  Had one of those people felt threatened and wanted to silence his
claims?

I
need to visit his shop, she decided.  Tomorrow morning—if it’s still open.  See
what I can find out.  Maybe I can pick up a clue as to who hated him enough to
kill him.

***

Ahhhh,
the scent of pine, Heather thought, and tried not to be too obvious about
sniffing the air.  Mingled with the piney scent emanating from the hanging
garlands and table arrangements everywhere were the aromas of a variety of side
dishes and desserts, not to mention the entrée choices, orange-honey-glazed ham
and enchiladas with sour cream sauce.

At
least they’d had the entrees catered, she thought, as she looked for a place to
set down Amy’s vegetable tray and her pie.  Several members of the Hillside
Council for the Fine Arts had wanted to have the entire event catered, but in
the end, budget constraints won out, and they voted to hire a caterer for the
entrees and have guests bring the rest.

She
set down her pie on the cranberry-red tablecloth that covered the dessert table
and quickly separated the plastic lid from the silver pie dish.  Glancing at
the other dessert offerings, she saw that apparently she wasn’t the only one
who’d gone the store-bought route.  Good.

She
slipped into the kitchen to throw the lid away and almost ran smack-dab into
Sheila Hampton, president of the council and owner of the beautiful home in
which the party was taking place.  “Heather, how nice to see you,” Sheila
gushed as she tried to edge past.  “Did you bring some of your wonderful
donuts?”

“I
brought a pecan pie.”

“Oh. 
Well, I’m sure it’ll be delicious.  Thank you so much for coming,” Sheila said,
and made her escape, disappearing into the crowd.

Heather
fingered the dangly silver necklace she wore over her bright red sweater and
edged further into the kitchen.  She located the trash can beside the kitchen
island and tossed the lid in.

Once
she’d manage to extricate herself from the crowded kitchen and make her way to
the drink table, she poured herself a glass of white wine and sipped it slowly.

Big
parties weren’t her thing.  Sure, she enjoyed people—it was kind of hard being
in business if you didn’t—but she wasn’t a big fan of making small talk.  She’d
much rather attend a smaller, more intimate party where everyone knew everyone
pretty well and therefore had actual reasons to chat rather than having to make
something up to be polite.

“Hey
there.  Heather, right?”

She
looked up to see a tall, curly-haired man wearing a burgundy-red sweater over a
button-down shirt smiling at her.  Reluctantly, she returned the smile.  “Yes. 
Heather.  Have we met?”

“Not
officially.  I’m Rob Gingrich.  I keep the books for the Council.”

“Nice
to meet you,” she said.

“You
own the gourmet donut shop over on Oak, right?”

“Donut
Delights.  Yes, I do.”

Gingrich
grimaced.  “I guess you heard about what happened to Stan Dombrowski.”

“I
heard it on the news this morning,” she said, wondering why on earth he was
still talking to her.

“So
did I.  Ten years of being his accountant, and I hear about his death on the
news,” he said.

This
guy had been Stan’s accountant?  Suddenly, she was interested in the
conversation.  “That must have been quite a shock,” she murmured, and saw him
nod.  “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to his shop now?”

“I
don’t know for sure.  I know Mrs. Dombrowski wants to sell the franchise.”

“She’s
already decided to sell?”

“Oh,
she’s wanted to sell for years now.  But Stan wasn’t interested.”

“Why
did she want to sell?”

“I
can’t tell you outright.  Client confidentiality.  But let’s just say that
business wasn’t as good as she wanted it to be.”

“They
were losing money?”

“Hand
over fist,” he said.  “Keep that to yourself?”

“Of
course,” she said, then wondered if she would be able to keep her promise. 
Shouldn’t she tell Shepherd? 

“So…are
you here with anyone tonight?” Gingrich asked.

“I’m
meeting someone,” she answered, mentally crossing her fingers at the little
white lie.  Well, it was true, wasn’t it?  She was meeting Amy.  Just not
romantically.

“Ah. 
Very well then.”  He gave her a half bow.  “Have a great evening.”

“Wait
a minute,” she said, stretching her hand out toward him.  “You said you worked
for Stan for ten years.  What was he like to work for?”

Gringrich’s
eyes lost the easygoing look and became dark.  “Everything was fine until he
started accusing me of embezzling money from him,” he said.  “Which I did not
do.  Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He
flashed her a polite smile that held no warmth, and walked away.

Well
that was interesting, she thought.  Another person against whom Stan made false
accusations.  At least, I assume they’re false.  But Rob was obviously angry
about them.  Still is.  Could he have gotten angry enough to shut Stan up
permanently?

“There
you are,” Amy said, appearing at her side in a clingy black dress with
cranberry-red accessories.  “Who was that hottie you were just talking to?  Was
he trying to pick you up?”

“He
was at first,” Heather said.  “That was Stan’s accountant.  Former accountant
now, I guess.  He was interested right up until I asked him how he liked
working for Stan.”

“What
did he say?”

“Said
everything was fine until Stan falsely accused him of embezzling business
funds.”

“Wow. 
Sounds like Stan should have taken that course on How to Win Friends and
Influence People.  Step 1: Don’t accuse them of stuff they didn’t do.”

Stan’s
national-chain donut shop was located in a strip shopping center that was,
ironically, only a few blocks from the police station.  At 7:00 in the morning,
there were only a few cars in the parking lot, and looked like most of them
were in front of the laundromat or the convenience store. 

Heather
pulled her car into an empty space in front of Stan’s shop and sat for a moment
thinking.  Only one car occupied a space anywhere nearby, and even that car
could have belonged to someone patronizing the laundromat.  The lights were
off, except for one light in the back somewhere.  The sign on the front of the
door was still turned to “closed.”

Oh,
well.  At least she had tried.

Just
as she was about to put the car in reverse, she saw someone moving around in
the back of Stan’s shop.  She grabbed her purse and jumped out of the car,
almost forgetting to lock up.  She rushed to the door and pounded on it, then
grasped the silver handle and rattled it.

The
guy in the back of the store looked up.  She tried to make eye contact with him
as she rattled the door again.  He came toward the front of the store, stopped
a couple yards from the door, and shouted, “We’re closed!”

“I
need to talk to you,” she shouted back through the glass.  “I don’t want to buy
any donuts.  I just want to talk to you.”

The
guy—she could now see that he was young, probably early 20’s—hesitated a
moment, sizing her up, then reluctantly twisted the lock on the door.  He
opened it a crack, stuck his face in the opening, and said, “What do you want?”

“I
just want to talk to you,” she said.  “Look, I know that Stan’s dead.  I’m
Heather Janke.  I—”

“You
own that other donut shop,” Mr. Young Guy said, and she nodded.  “Okay, come on
in,” he said, swinging the door wide and stepping back for her to enter.

She
did, and he closed and locked the door.  “Let’s talk in the back,” he said.  “I
don’t want anybody to think we’re open.”

She
followed him back into the kitchen, where he offered her a cheap metal folding
chair that was pushed up against the wall in a corner.  “I can get another
chair from the front if you want,” he said.

“This
is fine,” she said, sitting down and placing her purse on the floor next to
her.  “Okay, so you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Ben,”
he said.  “I’m Ben.  I’m—well, I was—Stan’s assistant.”  Ben looked around as
if trying to figure out a place to sit, then ended up lounging against a
counter.

“Did
you like working for him?”

Ben
hesitated.  “Look, you seem like a nice person, but—I’m still not sure why you
want to talk to me.”

She
met his gaze with what she hoped looked like an honest, open expression.  “I’m
trying to figure out who killed him.”

“Why?”

“Because
the police think I might have done it.”

Ben’s
body tensed.  “Did you?”

“No. 
But they think I might have had a reason to.  Stan and I never really got
along.  Lately, he made some very public accusations against me, that I was
trying to steal business away from him.  And I think he was also spreading
rumors around town that the health department had cited me for unsanitary
practices.  Which they didn’t.  You can look it up.”

As
she was talking, Ben had once again relaxed.  Now, he leaned toward her.  “You
weren’t the only one he accused of stuff,” he said.

“What
did he accuse you of?” she asked.

“He
acted like it was all my fault that business was going down.  Like it was my
fault the product quality was slipping.  But what else was I supposed to do
when he never wanted to spend any money?  How was I supposed to produce
top-quality donuts when he wouldn’t buy enough of the ingredients we needed?”

“Good
question,” she said.  “So you didn’t get along either.”

“Not
hardly.  I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but I—well, you can
imagine how I felt about him.”

“I
can indeed.”  She crooked a small smile at him as her gaze roamed the kitchen
area, finally landing on the deep freeze over in one corner.  “Was that where
he—where you—found him?”

“Yep. 
Crumpled up on top of the packages of sausage links.”

“So
you called the police right away?”

“Yeah,
I called 9-1-1.  Then I waited for them outside.  I didn’t want to be in here
with—well, you know.”

“Do
you have any idea who killed him?”

Ben
snorted.  “Could have been any of a number of people.  He managed to alienate
just about everybody.”

“But
do you have any ideas who might have done something about it?”

“I’m
not trying to accuse anybody,” he said.  “But I wouldn’t be surprised if his
wife offed him.  They hated each other.  You mentioned public arguments?  They
had their share.”

“I’ve
never met his wife.”

“I
have.  A few times, when she would come to the shop.  Not that she ever talked
to me.  She mainly ignored me.  Like because I was hired help, I was beneath
her notice.”

***

Heather
drove slowly toward Donut Delights, pondering what she had learned so far. 

Stan
and his wife hated each other and had had several public arguments.  Stan and
his employee, Ben, didn’t get along.  Ben probably hated him too, though he was
too polite to say it.  Stan had falsely—at least, to hear Ben tell it—accused
him of running his donut shop into the ground.  Rob Gingrich, Stan’s
accountant, was obviously angry with Stan for accusing him of embezzling money
from Stan’s not-so-profitable business.

That
made three people who didn’t get along with Stan.  Maybe they even hated him,
or, at the very least, were angry with him.  Any one of them could have killed
him.

Did
poor Stan get along with anybody? she wondered, surprised at the twinge of
sympathy.

An
idea pinged in her brain, and she swerved the car into the parking lot of the
police station.  As long as she was nearby, she might as well stop in and see
if Detective Shepherd was in.  Maybe he could tell her more about the manner of
death.

She
pushed through the glass door into the lobby of the station.  The uniformed
officer sitting at the desk looked up, stared at her for a moment, then said,
“May I help you, ma’am?”

“Yes,
please,” she said.  “Is Detective Shepherd in?”

The
officer tore his eyes from her and picked up the phone.  Heather gathered her
long, curly red hair up off her neck into a ponytail, then let it drop. 
Sometimes, having long hair got to be a pain.  But at least it kept her head
warm in the winter.

“Shepherd’s
not in,” the officer said.  “At least he didn’t answer his phone.”

“Okay,
thanks,” she said.  “I’ll just call him.”

She
smiled at the officer, who looked like he was wondering why she had Shepherd’s
number, and left the police station. 

***

When
she drove past her shop on the way around the corner to her usual parking spot
in the back, however, she recognized a familiar car.  Apparently Shepherd was
at Donut Delights.  Well, that would save her a phone call.

She
entered through the back into the kitchen, as she always did, stowed her purse
in her office, and headed for the dining area, where customers sat in
wrought-iron chairs at the same kind of tables.  The floors were a dark gold
wood, the walls distressed brick.  In the middle of each table sat a very
Paris-looking flower arrangement in a china coffee cup.

Detective
Ryan Shepherd sat at one of the tables at the edge of the room, a plate with a
Southern Pecan Pie donut on the table in front of him next to a coffee cup. 
She joined him and gestured to the donut.  “I guess you liked it the other
day?”

“It’s
good,” he said.  “Actually, it’s great.”

“So
what did you need to talk to me about?”

“Nothing,”
he said.

“Nothing? 
Then why are you here?”

“Can’t
a guy get a good donut and a cup of coffee—which is also good, I might
add—without having his motives questioned?”

“Uh,
I guess so.  You really didn’t have anything to talk to me about?”

“Not
a thing.”

“I
have something to ask you about.”

Unable
to speak around his mouthful of donut, he gestured at her to continue.

“The
manner of death,” she said, making sure to lower her voice so that customers at
nearby tables couldn’t hear her.  “You said it was blunt force trauma.”

“Yes.”

“With
what?”

“Probably
the rolling pin we found in the alley with blood and one hair on it.”

“So
it was a crime of opportunity.”

“Not
necessarily.”

“What
do you mean?  You think someone came to the donut shop and planned to hit him
over the head with a rolling pin?”

“No. 
I think someone came to the shop hating him and wanting to kill him.  Then when
the opportunity presented itself, and Mr. Dombrowski obligingly leaned into the
deep freezer, the killer snatched up a rolling pin and conked him in the back
of the head.  Which caused him to collapse over the edge of the freezer.  Then
all the killer had to do was lift up his feet, dump him in, shut the lid, and
drop the rolling pin in the alley on his or her way out.”

“Why
do you think he was leaning into the deep freezer when the killer hit him?  Or
that he conveniently collapsed on the edge?”

“Blood
spatters,” he said.  “On the inner lid of the freezer.  And droplets of blood
on the inside bottom of the freezer, beneath where the body was lying, and
which would not have resulted from the position of the head once he was in the
freezer.”  Shepherd paused and took another bite of his donut.  “Mmmm.  Delicious.”

Heather
couldn’t help grimacing.  “You talk about blood spatters, and then you just eat
your donut.  Eeww.”

“You
get used to it,” he said.  “If you’re a homicide detective, and you don’t learn
to eat under, shall we say, less-than-proper circumstances, you don’t get to
eat much.”

She
shook her head to dispel the lingering yuck.  “So it could have been a man or a
woman.  Even a small-built person could have whacked him, then helped him into
the freezer.”

“Yes.”

“Too
bad that doesn’t eliminate anybody.”

“Indeed,”
he said.  “But we have some suspects.  And I’m sure you do, too.”

“Whom
do you suspect?” she asked.

“Can’t
tell you.  Whom do you suspect?”

“Can’t
tell you.  But I’ll let you know if I find out anything I think you might not
be aware of.”

“I’d
rather you just tell me everything.  Actually, I’d rather you didn’t
investigate at all.  But I suppose there’s no chance of that?”

“Nope,”
she said.  “None.”