Maple Frosted Murder (Donut Hole 2) (5 page)

The
next morning, Heather woke up before her alarm went off.  She squinted at the
clock, saw that the first number was a 5, and burrowed back beneath the
covers.  She tossed and turned for the next ten minutes, trying to get
comfortable enough to go back to sleep.  But her brain had turned on, and besides,
now she had to go to the bathroom. 

Sighing,
Heather slid out from beneath the covers, leaving them pulled up over the bed
so as to preserve some of the warmth trapped between them and the mattress. 
She padded across the wood floor to the bathroom in her fuzzy socks, did what
she had to do, and raced back to the bed, sliding back beneath the comforter
into her cocoon. 

At
the foot of the bed, Dave raised his head sleepily, as if wondering what all
the running around so early in the morning was all about.  A couple seconds
later, he flopped back down and almost immediately resumed snoring.

Heather
wasn’t so lucky.  The more she tried to go to sleep, the more she began to feel
wide awake and alert.  After ten more minutes of tossing and turning, she gave
up.  Sitting up, she arranged her mound of pililows against the iron headboard
and leaned back to ponder the questions that had been swirling in her
subconscious all night long.

Who
had killed Stan?  And why?

As
for the ‘why,’ apparently Stan didn’t get along with many people.  It seemed
that he had alienated everyone he knew by making accusations against them and
by his controlling, demeaning manner.  Maybe that was the ‘why.’

As
for the ‘who,’ Shepherd—Ryan, she reminded herself—had said it could have been
either a woman or a man.  Either gender would have possessed the strength
necessary to knock Stan over the head, and then, once he conveniently collapsed
in a u-shape over the side of the freezer, lift up his legs and dump him in.

So
the M.O. didn’t allow her to eliminate anyone from the list of suspects. 
Neither did the timing—at least as far as she knew.  Hmm.  That was something
to ask Ryan about.  Which of the suspects had an alibi?

Dave
hopped down from his place on her bed and whined.  He walked toward the bedroom
door, whined some more, and looked back at her.

“I’m
coming,” she said, yawning, and threw the covers back.  She wouldn’t be going
back to bed.  As long as she was going to be wide awake anyway, it was better
to make coffee and drink a cup or two.  Maybe then something would click in her
brain and everything would become clear.

I
wish, she thought as she cracked open the back door and prodded Dave out into
the cold morning air with her foot pushing against his bottom.

***

A
few hours later, as she sat shivering in her car and waiting for the engine to
warm up and the vent to start blowing hot air, she was glad that at least there
would be no graveside service.  Stan had been cremated.

Thank
you, Stan, she thought silently as she put the car in gear and backed out of
the driveway.

The
memorial service was to be held at St. Stephen’s, one of the larger churches in
town.  For now, though, she turned in the opposite direction from the church
and headed towards Amy’s house.

She
pulled into Amy’s driveway, and, when she didn’t see her friend come rushing
out the door, picked up her cell phone to call.  But just then, the front door
opened, and Amy zipped out, slammed it behind her, jiggled the knob, then raced
to the car.  “Unlock the door!” she screamed when lifting up on the handle
produced no results.

“Sorry,”
Heather said as Amy finally slid into the car.  “I forgot.”

“Are
you trying to freeze me to death?” Amy demanded.  “Because it almost worked.”

“This
is nothing,” Heather said.  “I lived in New York for a while, remember?  Those
were cold winters.  32 degrees doesn’t even rank as cold.”

“Says
you,” Amy said, ducking her chin into the collar of her coat.  “Brr.”

“At
least there won’t be a graveside service,” Heather said cheerfully.

“There
won’t?  Why not?”

“Stan
was cremated.”

“Good
ol’ Stan,” Amy said.

***

St.
Stephen’s sat at the top of a hill, its parking lot—which didn’t appear to hold
very many cars—spread out next to it.  Heather glanced at the dashboard clock,
saw that there were only 15 minutes left until the service was to start, and
frowned.  “Where is everybody?”

“Probably
inside,” Amy said.  “Nobody’s gonna linger in the parking lot when it’s this
cold.”

“But
there aren’t very many cars.”

“Good. 
Maybe we can get a parking spot close to the doors.”

Finding
a parking spot was easy enough.  Heather locked up the car, and the two women
hurried through the main doors and into the foyer of the church.  A few
mourners milled around, talking in hushed tones.  A man in a dark-colored suit
stood next to a small table that held the guest book, a pen in a gold holder,
and a stack of programs. 

Heather
and Amy didn’t know any of the people congregated in the foyer, so they stepped
over to the table.  The man standing next to it said nothing, merely nodding at
them as they signed their names and then each picked up a program.

They
entered the sanctuary, and the doors closed behind them.  “Who was that?” Amy
whispered, referring to the man standing beside the table.

“No
clue,” Heather replied, scanning the sanctuary.

The
pews were only partially filled.  Plenty of seats were still available.  She
slipped into a pew halfway back in the sanctuary, at the rear of the small
group of people assembled, and Amy followed her. 

Heather
glanced through her program, then up toward the front of the church. “Hey,
look, there’s Rob Gingrich,” she said to Amy.

“Where?”

“Three
rows in front of us.  Right by the outside aisle.”

Amy
located him and nodded.

“And
there’s Ben.  Stan’s assistant.”  Heather nodded towards his former employee,
who was seated across the aisle and a few rows up from them.

“Where’s
Gary Larkin?”

“I
don’t know.  I don’t know what he looks like.”

“Me
either,” Heather whispered.

At
ten o’clock sharp, as the minister respectfully took his place in front of the
congregation, Mr. Guest Book escorted Sheila down the aisle to the front pew. 
When he sat down next to her, Amy turned to Heather, her eyebrows raised. 
Heather shrugged subtly.  I don’t know.

The
service took a mere thirty minutes.  At one point, Heather saw Sheila raise a
handkerchief to her eyes, but when Sheila lowered the square of fabric, she
didn’t appear to have been crying at all.  Not just then, and maybe never.  Is
she really a grieving widow, or just playing the part? Heather wondered.

At
the end of the service, the minister pronounced a benediction.  Heather and Amy
stood and moved into the aisle, turning toward the rear of the church, in the
opposite direction from those making their way to the front to offer their
condolences. 

As
they made their way down the aisle, Heather spotted a familiar figure standing
respectfully near the back.  “Hello, Ryan,” she said as they approached.

“Ladies,”
he greeted them.

“Ah,
yes,” Amy said.  “The investigating detective would attend the funeral of the
victim.”

With
a nod, he conceded the point.

“Do
you know who that man was who was sitting by Sheila Dombrowski?” Heather asked.

“Gary
Larkin,” Shepherd said.

“That’s
Gary Larkin?  The one Stan thought kicked him off the Chamber of Commerce board
because he was power hungry?”

“The
very same.”

“Hmm. 
Sitting right next to the grieving widow.”

Something
apparently caught Shepherd’s eye then, because he glanced over Heather’s
shoulder, said, “Excuse me,” and made his way past them and up the aisle.

“Guess
your friend has business to take care of,” Amy said as they made their way to
the car.

“He’s
not my ‘friend,’” Heather said.

“You
called him ‘Ryan.’”

“That’s
his name.”

“His
first name.  What ever happened to Detective Shepherd?”

Heather
felt her cheeks growing warm despite the chilly air.  Fortunately, they had
reached the car.  “Here we are!” she said brightly, and pushed the button on
her key fob to unlock the doors.

Once
inside, she started the car, studiously avoiding Amy’s gaze.  But she could
feel Amy’s eyes on her, and finally, she glanced over at her friend.  “What?”
she asked, in what she hoped was an innocent voice.

“Oh,
nothing,” Amy said, giving her a knowing smile.

***

After
driving Amy home and going home herself to change clothes, Heather drove to
Donut Delights.  Might as well put in a couple hours, at least.

She
bustled through the door just in time to see Eva turn away from the counter
holding a box of donuts.  “Eva!” she called out.

Eva
turned, and a smile lit her face.  “Heather!  I thought I had missed seeing you
today.”

“I
was late because I went to Stan Dombrowski’s funeral.  Had to drop my friend
off, then go home and change.”

“Sad
business, that,” Eva said.  “Who would want to kill Stan?”

Heather
glanced around to verify that no one was nearby.  “Everyone, apparently,” she
said.  “Or at least, it seems that nobody much really liked him.”

“That’s
sad.”

“Yeah. 
It is.”

“I
was fortunate to have 52 years with Erich,” Eva said, emotion lighting her
eyes.  “52 years of loving deeply, and being loved equally well.”

“That’s
beautiful,” Heather said.

“Ours
was a beautiful love,” Eva said, smiling despite her sudden tears.  “Someday,
I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I’d
love to hear about it,” she said, meaning it.  “I’d be honored.”

Eva
patted the box of donuts.  “Well, I’ve got to go,” she said.  “I’m taking
donuts to friends at Hillside Manor.  Not everybody is as fortunate as I am and
can still live on their own.”

“That’s
sweet of you,” Heather said.  “Let me give you a few more donuts to take.”

“I’ve
got what I need for my friends today,” she said, “but I’ll take some for the
nurses.  Nurses love donuts, you know.  Plus, it never hurts to have the nurses
on your side.”

“Very
true,” Heather said.  She slipped behind the counter and quickly boxed a dozen
different gourmet donuts.”

“Do
you think a dozen will be enough?”

“Oh,
yes,” Eva said.  “Thank you very much.”

“You’re
very welcome.  Any time you pick up donuts for your friends, let me know, and
I’ll throw in a box for the nurses.”

“You’re
very kind,” Eva said, smiling.  “Thank you again.”

Heather
watched the elderly woman make her slow but steady way to the door.  “52
years,” she mumbled to herself.  “Wow.”  Too bad she and her ex-husband, Don,
hadn’t lasted 52 years.