Maple Frosted Murder (Donut Hole 2) (6 page)

Would
Sheila and Stan have lasted 52 years? she wondered, as she turned back towards
the kitchen.  Doubtful. 

Speaking
of Sheila…she still needed to ask Ryan about the suspects’ alibis for the night
of the murder.

She
got her opportunity when the door opened, and a gust of wind blew Ryan inside. 
“Wow, it’s brisk out there,” he said.

“You’re
a Southern boy, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Born
and bred right here in Texas,” he said.  “You from somewhere else?”

“I
lived in New York for a few years,” she said.

“Ah. 
Then you’re not impressed by what we call ‘winter.’”

She
smiled.  “Not so much.  It’s nice not to have to deal with snow and ice,
though.  So, how may I help you?  Are you back for more donuts?”

“And
a large coffee.  You may not be cold, but I am.”

“What
kind of donut would you like?” she asked as she reached for the coffee pot and
a cup.

“Hmm.” 
He walked up and down in front of the glass display cases, peering into them,
until she set the cup of coffee on top of the case next to him.  “I can’t
decide,” he said finally.  “What do you recommend?”

“Try
the White Christmas,” she suggested.  “Frosted in white vanilla frosting with
peppermint crumbles.”

“I’ll
try it,” he said.

“Are
you going to be eating here, or getting these to go?”

“Here,
I think.”

“Good. 
I have some questions for you.”

“I’m
not surprised.”

“Have
a seat, and I’ll bring your order to you.”

“Thank
you,” he said.  He chose a table by the window as she placed the donut on a
plate and then put the plate and the coffee cup on a small tray along with a
thick paper napkin.

“I
remembered you like your coffee black,” she said as she set the tray on his
table and sat down across from him.

“Thanks,”
he said as he dug into the donut.

“I
try to make it a practice to remember all my customers’ likes and dislikes,”
she said.

He
nodded, his mouth full.

“So
is that what you’re going to be?  A regular customer?”

Ryan
chewed deliberately, tried to swallow the bite, and choked.  He took a sip of
coffee to help wash it down, coughed a few times, then looked at her.  “Maybe,”
he said.  “You said you had some questions?”

“I
was just wondering who had an alibi for the night Stan was murdered.”

“I
did, for one,” he said.  “So you can be sure I didn’t kill him.”

She
rolled her eyes.  “I suppose you were out partying where a hundred people saw you?”

“No,”
he said slowly.  “I was at the emergency vet clinic with my cat.  She choked on
a chicken bone that she got to before I had a chance to throw them out.”

“Cat? 
You like cats?”

“Bella
was my wife’s cat.”

“Your
wife?  I didn’t know you were married,” she said, glancing at his ring finger. 
It was bare.

“I’m
not,” he said.  “I’m widowed.”

“Oh. 
I’m sorry,” she said simply.

“Thank
you.  Now, as for your question.  You want to know which suspects had an alibi
for the night Stan was murdered.  Why don’t you tell me whom you consider a
suspect, and we’ll go from there?”

“Stan’s
wife.  Sheila.”

“She
has an alibi,” he said.  “She was the one who was out partying where a hundred
people saw her.”

“How
about Rob Gingrich, Stan’s accountant?”

“At
some sort of meeting with a bunch of other accountants.”

“What
about Ben?”

“Stan’s
assistant?  Studying for finals.”

“He’s
in school?   What’s he studying?”

“Small
business ownership.”

“Interesting. 
Was he studying by himself?”

“Nope. 
Study group.  Six other people.”

“Gary
Larkin?” she asked hopefully.

“Chamber
of Commerce board meeting.”

She
shrugged.  “I guess I’m fresh out of suspects.”

“Something
will turn up,” he said.  “Some clue, some new suspect.  It usually does.”

“Do
you still suspect whomever it was you suspected before?”

“Yes. 
But I can’t prove it.  That’s the frustrating part.  I know who did it.  But I
can’t prove it.”

“How
do you know?”

“Instinct. 
You get a feel for these things.”

“But
what if your feel is wrong?”

“That’s
always a possibility,” he said.  “That’s why I try to keep an open mind until I
have proof.”

“But
if you’re looking for proof against a certain person, wouldn’t that lead you to
interpret certain clues or evidence a certain way?  Confirmation bias, and all
that?”

“I’m
looking for proof as to who the murderer was,” he said.  “Not proof against a
certain person.”

“Sorry,”
she said.  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m
not like that,” he said.  “I don’t just try to hang crimes on a certain person
I like for a suspect.”

“I
know you’re not,” she said.  They held each other’s gaze for a moment until,
apparently, he was satisfied, and his posture relaxed.

“Hey,
Shepherd, I thought I’d find you here,” a voice called out.

Ryan
was already looking at the man coming through the door.  Tall, dressed in a
polo shirt and khakis, and with a badge and gun on his belt, the man took a
chair at their table, flipped it around, and sat down facing the back of the
chair, which was toward the table.  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Heather,
this is Bill Mitchell,” Ryan said reluctantly.  “Bill, Heather.   She owns this
place.”

“Can
I get you a donut and some coffee?” she asked.  “On the house.”

“Sure,”
Bill said.  “I’ll take whatever kind of donut you recommend.  Black coffee.”

“Pay
for the donut,” Ryan told him.

“It’s
okay; we’re officer-friendly,” she said.

“See?”
Bill said, gesturing toward her.  “They’re officer-friendly.”

Ryan
shook his head as Heather assembled Bill’s order and brought it to him.  “What
is it with cops and black coffee?” she asked jokingly.

“All
we have time for,” Bill said.  He grabbed the donut and took a bite.  “Mmm,
this is delicious,” he said with his mouth full.  “You weren’t kidding,
Shepherd.”

“Did
you need me for something?” Ryan asked, both eyebrows rising this time.

“Nope. 
Just wanted to try out the donut shop you’ve been raving about.”

“Raving? 
Really?” Heather asked.

“Yeah. 
You should hear him,” Bill said.

Heather
glanced at Ryan, saw that he actually looked flustered.  Flustered?  Wow,
really? 

“I
have to get back to work,” Heather said, deciding to have pity on him.  “You
guys enjoy your donuts, okay?”

“Will
do,” Bill said.  “Thank you.  Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“It’s
‘Heather,’” she said.

“Pleasure,
Heather.”

She
turned toward the kitchen.  As she walked away, she could have sworn she heard
Ryan mutter to Bill, “Thanks a lot.”

What
in the world was going on?

***

Heather
sat in one of the wicker chairs on her front porch, her feet propped on a
matching ottoman.  She loved the huge, wraparound porch on her 1920’s house,
loved being able to sit out on it and watch the world go by virtually all year
long.

Yesterday,
the temperature had been in the 30’s.  Today, it was in the 60’s.  But that was
Texas weather for you, especially in December.  Winter one day, spring the
next.

Sunday
was her day off.  Most Sundays, she loved to relax around the house, enjoying
her porch and her coffee and her dog, and maybe the occasional black-and-white
movie.  She was what she had recently read referred to as an “extroverted
introvert”—a person who loved being around people, but who definitely needed
time alone to recharge.

So
that was what Sunday was for—recharging.  She spent most of the day alone, then
some Sunday evenings, like this one, Amy would come over, and they’d do
something relaxing together, like enjoy a cheese platter and glasses of wine
while they chatted or watched something with Humphrey Bogart.

Amy
was due to arrive any minute now, and Heather had decided to wait on the porch,
where she could enjoy the nice weather.  Not that Amy would think it
particularly “nice.”  She’d probably insist she was freezing.

Sure
enough, when Amy arrived, she shivered ostentatiously and said, “What are you
doing out here?  It’s cold!”

Heather
stood and preceded her back into the house.  “I’ve got some Chardonnay and some
Bogart all ready and waiting,” she said.

“Sounds
perfect,” Amy said.  “I could do with a little wine to lubricate the ol’
synapses and hopefully get the creative juices flowing again.”

“Having
artist’s block?” Heather asked as she grabbed a corkscrew from her
miscellaneous kitchen stuff drawer.

“That,
and it’s time to solve the mystery of Stan’s murder.  If a crime isn’t solved
within the first couple days, it’s not likely to be solved.”

“It’s
still early.  There’s still time.”

“Not
according to CSI.  And you know everything you see on TV is accurate.”

Heather
chuckled and poured generous amounts of wine into the glasses Amy had set on
the counter.  They carried their beverages into the living room, and then
Heather returned to the kitchen for the cold cuts platter she’d prepared
earlier.

Amy
reached out and snatched a piece of cheese as Heather passed her to set the
tray down on the coffee table.  “You have good taste in cheese,” she said.

“It’s
not hard when you just look at the trays in the deli section at Kroger and copy
one.”

“Okay,
so let’s get those creative juices flowing,” Amy said, taking a sip of her
wine.  “We have to figure out who iced Stan.”

***

But
three hours later, they were no closer to figuring out who the killer was than
they had been.  Finally, frustrated and discouraged, Amy went home, and Heather
got ready for bed.

Slipping
into a pair of flannel pajama pants and a long t-shirt, Heather washed her
face, brushed her teeth, then let Dave outside for the last time.  When he came
back in, she locked the door behind him and headed down the hallway to her
bedroom, with Dave following.

As
she snuggled under the covers, Dave turned in circles at the foot of the bed,
looking for just the right place to settle in.  Heather closed her eyes and
tried to let the wine relax her to sleep.  Maybe something would come to her in
the morning.

By
the time she finally drifted into slumber, Dave had already been snoring his
little, whiffling doggie snores for quite some time.