Mint Chip Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 6 (5 page)

“Tell Ryan?  Why would I do that?”

“Because if it looks like I’m running
my own investigation, a good defense attorney could raise all kind of issues.”

“But I’m your best friend.  Can’t we
talk?”

“We
can talk, but in terms of information that has to do with a murder
investigation, I have to refer you to Ryan,” Heather said.

“Well, okay,” Amy said, squinting at
her.  “Did Ryan read you the riot act today or something?”

“Not exactly.  He just told me what’s
best.  And he said that his ultimate concern is not what happens in court, but
what might happen to me.  He doesn’t want the murderer to come after me, too.”

“I suppose he’s got a point there.”

“Yeah, it’s a bummer.  But I
understand.”

“Anything for the man you love,
right?”

“Something like that,” Heather said,
unable to hide either her smile or the blush creeping into her cheeks.

***

After snarfing down a sandwich and
some chips for supper with Amy, then making her Wal-Mart run, Heather finally
headed home.  Coming in through the back door as she usually did, she thought
she heard the faint sound of the front doorbell. 

She dropped her purse on the counter
and walked swiftly through the kitchen and living room to the front door. 
Glancing through the peephole, the only thing she could see was a bouquet of
flowers.

“Hi there,” she said, opening the door
to let Ryan in.

But it wasn’t Ryan.  The person who
had rung her doorbell wore a polo shirt and khakis.  A van parked at the curb
behind him bore a decal along the side that read McKinley Florist.  “Flowers
for Heather Janke?” he said.

“I’m Heather,” she said.  The
deliveryman held the vase of roses toward her, and she accepted it.

“There’s a card,” the man said,
pointing.  “Enjoy your flowers.  Have a nice day.”

“You too,” Heather said.  Smiling, she
shut the door behind him, then set the flowers on the coffee table and plucked
the small, white envelope from the plastic pitchfork-looking holder.

Opening the envelope and sliding out
the card written in Ryan’s hand, she read, Tomorrow’s my turn to cook.  See you
at my place at 7:00?  A heart was the only signature.

Heather retrieved her cell phone from
her purse on the kitchen counter and texted back, “See you then.  The flowers
are beautiful.  Thank you.”

“The Cinnamon Crumble donuts are a big
hit,” Maricela said as Heather stepped into the kitchen of Donut Delights. 
“Angelica’s making some more right now.”

Angelica glanced Heather’s way,
smiled, then turned back to her work of coating the tops of the donuts with
pecan crumbles and the butter-brown sugar-cinnamon glaze.

“Great!” Heather said.  “You never
know how a new donut’s going to go over.”

“Seriously?” Maricela asked.  “Have
you ever had a flop?”

“Once,” Heather said.  She shuddered. 
“Let’s not even talk about it.”

“Well, this one seems to be pretty
popular,” Maricela said.  “I’d say it’s going over just fine.”

“Good,” Heather said. 

As she began stuffing her hair into a
hairnet, a strident female voice called out from the front counter, “Excuse
me?  Miss?”

Heather glanced over to see a
middle-aged woman holding a half-eaten donut out in front of her as if it were
poison.  She put on her best professional smile and approached the counter.

“Yes, ma’am?  May I help you?”

“This donut is awful,” the woman
said.  She set it down on top of the glass case and jerked her hand away. 
“What’s in it?”

“That’s one of our new Cinnamon
Crumble donuts,” Heather said. 

“It’s a cinnamon-flavored donut with
pecan crumble topping, coated with a special glaze made of butter, cinnamon,
and brown sugar.”

“Well I don’t care what’s in it,” the
customer said.  “It’s awful.  I can’t believe how much you charged me for this—this—”

“If you’d like, you can try another
donut,” Heather said.  “On the house.  Any variety you’d like.”

“I don’t want another donut.”  The
woman grimaced.  “It would probably be as bad as this one.”

“Then I’d be happy to refund your
money.  Was there anything else that wasn’t to your satisfaction?”

“The coffee wasn’t very good, either,”
she said.  “But I managed to drink it.”

“Ma’am, I’ll be glad to refund your
money for the coffee, too,” Heather said, moving toward the register.

“Well, you should.  It’s the least you
can do.”

Heather rang up the price of a donut
and a cup of coffee, counted out the woman’s refund, and handed it to her.

“And I won’t be coming back,” she
said.  “The prices you charge for these donuts!  You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Heather kept her smile pasted to her
face until the customer had gathered up her purse and left the store.  Then,
she turned back towards the kitchen, drew in a deep breath, and let it out
slowly.

“You were so nice to her,” Angelica
said.  “But she was very nasty toward you.  Why would you be so nice to her?”

“Because she’s a customer,” Heather
said.

“Not anymore.”

“Then maybe just because it’s the
right thing to do.”

“I’m glad she’s not coming back.  We
don’t need any customers like her.”

“For every one of her, there are 99
delightful ones,” Heather said.  “Gotta take the good with the bad sometimes.”

“You’re the boss,” Angelica muttered
as she turned back to her work.  “But I don’t like the way they talk to you.”

Heather smiled as she grabbed an
apron, slipped the strap over her head, and tied it behind herself.  Maybe you
couldn’t make everybody happy, she thought, because there was just no pleasing
some people.  But if you could spend most of your life making most people
happy, as she had the privilege to do, then you had nothing to complain about. 
In fact, you were very blessed.

***

“Sorry,” Amy said, giggling.  “Hee
hee.  Sorry again.”

The white-coated pedicurist working on
Amy’s right foot didn’t look up.  She was probably used to customers with
ticklish feet, Heather figured. 

As another pedicurist worked on
Heather’s foot, Heather leaned back against the leather chair and sighed.  The
constant, low hum of the vibrations as the chair massaged her back provided a
soothing background noise that almost lulled her to sleep.  That, and the fact
that the foot not being worked on rested in a tub of delightfully warm water.

“Ahhhh,” Heather sighed.  “I could
really get used to this.”

“You should get a mani-pedi more
often,” Amy said.  “Hee hee.  Because you’re on your feet all day.  Ha! 
Sorry.  Maybe I better not try to talk to you until she’s done with my feet.”

“You’re funny,” Heather said.  She
closed her eyes.  In a moment, she felt the pedicurist gently place her foot
back into the warm water, then lift her other foot to be worked on.  “I just
don’t pamper myself very often,” she said to Amy.  “You know?”

“Every woman needs pampering once in a
while,” Amy said, sighing in relief as the woman placed her foot back into the
water.  “Preferably often.”

“Mmm,” Heather murmured
noncommittally.  Once in awhile was fine with her, but pampering herself too
often would feel…decadent, maybe.  Or wasteful, in terms of money.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Amy
said.

“What am I thinking?”

“That it costs too much.  That it’s
too indulgent.  Something like that.”

“Right-o.”

“Okay, then,” Amy said.  “Marry Ryan
and let him pamper you.”

“He hasn’t asked,” Heather said.

“Would you marry him if he did?”

“You want the same color polish on
your toes as on your fingers?”  The nail tech was looking up at Heather, saving
her from having to answer Amy’s question.

“Yes, please,” she said gratefully.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought
about it, or that she didn’t know the answer.  The answer was an unqualified,
resounding yes.  Yes, she would marry Ryan if he asked.

So why didn’t she want to admit that
to her best friend?

Throughout the rest of the pedicure,
as the nail tech finished up and then eased the thin, foam flip-flops onto
Heather’s feet, she pondered the reason.  And as she and Amy sat at the
ultraviolet station after their manicures, their hands resting on the counter,
fingers spread apart under the rays, the answer finally came to her.

Other than herself, she wanted Ryan to
be the first person to whom she would ever acknowledge her desire to marry
him. 

That is, if he ever asked.

***

“So what do you have planned for this
evening?” Amy asked, spooning a huge bite of sprinkle-covered frozen yogurt
into her mouth.

“Ryan’s going to cook dinner,” Heather
said.  As a mother with two toddlers in tow eased past their table in the food
court, Heather reached down and scooted her bags closer to her feet.

“Ooooh, a man who cooks!” Amy said.

“I assume he does.  He’s never really
cooked for me before.  But the other day, when I cooked dinner for him, he
claimed to be a—in his words—‘great’ cook.”

“So what’s he making you?”

“I don’t know.  The card just invited
me to dinner at 7:00 at his place.”

“Card?  What card?”

“The one in the bouquet of roses,”
Heather answered.

“Roses?  An entire dozen?” 

Heather nodded.

“What color?”

“Red.”

“You got a dozen red roses, and you
didn’t tell me?  Your best friend?”  Amy placed a hand to her chest, feigning
hurt feelings.

“I guess I just didn’t think of it,”
Heather said.

“Whatever.  Okay, so you definitely
need to wear that maxi dress you bought tonight.  Red roses are for passion, so
he’s obviously attracted to you.  As if we didn’t both know that.  So it
wouldn’t hurt to fan the flames a little bit.”

“I was planning on wearing it,”
Heather said, taking a bite of her own sundae, and then deliberately changing
the subject.  “So when’s your next date with Chris?”

“It may or may not be tonight,” Amy
said.  Then she leaned in closer and said in a stage whisper, “Why do you think
I bought that little mini-dress?”

Heather laughed.  She stopped when she
saw Amy staring toward the other side of the food court.  “What?” she asked. 
“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t look now,” Amy said, “but
there’s Brent Riggleman sitting over there by Orange Julius.”

So of course, Heather looked.  “Oh, I
see him,” she said.  “Hmm.  He’s by himself.”

“He’s kind of a loner,” Amy said. 
“Hadn’t really dated anybody for awhile until he got interested in Kelly.”

“Have you told all this to Ryan?”
Heather asked, trying not to stare at Brent, who sat eating a piece of
cheesecake.

“Yep.  He said thanks.  But I don’t
think there’s anything wrong with us talking about it.  I don’t have any actual
information that you don’t already know.  Just speculation, conjecture and wild
guesses.”

“Brent has always seemed pleasant the
few times I’ve run into him at an event or something.”

“Yep, that’s Brent.  Always smiling. 
Unassuming.  Meek.  That’s why you have to watch out for guys like him.  You never
know what they could be planning.”

“Have you ever seen him angry?”

“Well, once,” Amy said, her voice
suddenly serious.  “And before you ask, I told Ryan about this, too.  I once
saw Brent get pretty upset about a snide comment somebody made about him.  I
didn’t think it was a big deal.  But I guess Brent did.”  Amy paused.  “That
was the first and only time I ever saw him really, really angry.”

“I wish I could go over there and talk
to him,” Heather said.  “Just ask him a few questions.”

“But Ryan wouldn’t like it?”

“Nope.  And I understand why not. I
mean, I’m not a professional.  He’s right.  And I see what a defense attorney
could make out of my involvement.  But it’s killing me to sit here and not go
talk to him.”

“There’s no reason I can’t go talk to
him,” Amy said, spooning up the last bit of her fro-yo. 

“No.  Don’t,” Heather said.

“Why not?  I’m not dating Ryan
Shepherd.  He didn’t tell me to keep my little nosey nose out of this case.”

“Please don’t,” Heather said.  “I
don’t want him to think I’m trying to find a way to get around what he asked me
to do.  Or not do.”

“Okay,” Amy sighed.  “Although I don’t
guess it would really do any good to talk to him, anyway.  I mean, what, we
say, ‘So, Brent, you seem to be a mild-mannered guy, but I bet you really get
angry sometimes.  Were you angry that Kelly wouldn’t date you?  How angry were
you?  Oh, and by the way, did you kill her?’”

“Yeah, probably not,” she agreed. 
“That kind of confession only happens on TV.”

“Perry Mason,” Amy said.  “That’s how
it always went.  Perry would get the killer up on the witness stand, and
everybody knew it was the killer, but the guy just hadn’t confessed yet.  And
somehow, Perry always got them to give themselves up.”