Jealousy Filled Donuts

by Ginger Bolton

  Books by Ginger Bolton

  SURVIVAL OF THE FRITTERS

  GOODBYE CRULLER WORLD

  JEALOUSY FILLED DONUTS

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Jealousy Filled Donuts

  GINGER BOLTON

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Ginger Bolton

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Recipes

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Janet Bolin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1191-5

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1192-0 (ebook)

  Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1191-5

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1191-2

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Edition: September 2019

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my supportive friends, including Krista Davis, Daryl Wood Gerber, who also writes as Avery Aames, Laurie Cass, who also writes as Laura Alden, Kaye George, who also writes as Janet Cantrell, and Allison Brook, who also writes as Marilyn Levinson. And then there are the Deadly Dames: Melodie Campbell, Alison Bruce, Joan O’Callaghan, Cathy Astolfo, and Nancy O’Neill, who always have great suggestions. And jokes. And potluck lunch dishes.

  Sgt. Michael Boothby, Toronto Police Service (Retired), again took time to read my manuscript and make helpful suggestions. If any of the police officers in Jealousy Filled Donuts don’t behave, blame them, not Mike.

  Thank you to the organizers and volunteers who make Malice Domestic conferences inspiring and give fans of this type of mystery a chance to enjoy one another’s company.

  I really appreciate the enthusiasm and help of my agent, John Talbot, and of my editor, John Scognamiglio. Thank you also to the rest of the Kensington team, especially Mary Ann Lasher, the cover artist, and Kristine Mills for the cover design. And many thanks to Michelle Addo for coordinating and organizing the Kensington CozyClub Mini-Convention in Forest Park, Illinois—another chance to get together with authors and readers. It was fun!

  Thank you to my family and friends, especially the late Lorne Creor, who introduced me to the combination of cheddar cheese and maple syrup as a delicious dessert or snack.

  Thank you to librarians and readers. What would we do without you? May you enjoy many warming mugs of coffee and yummy donuts.

  Chapter 1

  Every morning, the aromas in the Deputy Donut kitchen were enticing, and the morning of July Fourth was no different. I smelled coffee, yeast dough, cinnamon, nutmeg, and the two types of jelly we’d just opened—raspberry and blueberry.

  I was in the midst of an argument.

  Well, sort of. Making a very stern face, I settled my Deputy Donut hat firmly on my rowdy curls. “It’s perfectly fair, Tom,” I informed my father-in-law. “I won the coin toss, and I’m driving our donut car in the parade this morning.” Unfortunately, the hat did not quite give me the authority of a real police hat, maybe because of the fuzzy white donut glued in front where the badge should be.

  Tom was also trying to look serious, a difficult task considering that his dark brown eyes were twinkling and his Deputy Donut hat was jammed crookedly on his salt-and-pepper hair. “Emily,” he warned, “I’m the police chief.”

  “Retired,” I reminded him. “And our donut car police cruiser is from 1950, way before you were a rookie cop.”

  “All the more reason for me to drive it. You’re barely over thirty.”

  “And a half. When you were my age, you drove real police cars with real sirens and real flashing lights. It’s only fair for me to drive our pretend cruiser this morning while you and Jocelyn keep making Fourth of July donuts.”

  Tom grinned at our new assistant. “Never expect to win an argument with Emily.”

  Jocelyn’s dazzling smile included both of us. “With either of you.”

  The athletic nineteen-year-old was dressed like Tom and I were, in knee-length black shorts, white polo shirt, Deputy Donut apron, and donut-trimmed “police” hat. Like me, she had dark hair, but she pinned hers, which was long and straight, into a bun she wore low to accommodate the cap. Her eyes were almost black, not blue like mine.

  Pasting on a fake glower, Tom shook his index finger at me. “Someday, I’m going to drive that car.”

  I frowned and wagged my finger right back at him. “How about next Fourth of July?”

  Off to my side, something whirred and clicked.

  Jocelyn glanced past me. Her smile disappeared, leaving her face blank and unreadable. She twirled on one toe and glided out of the kitchen and into our storeroom, out of sight of Tom and of me. And also out of sight of everyone in our dining room.

  I turned toward the sounds I’d heard.

  A man on the other side of our serving counter lowered a camera from his face. Like nearly everyone else besides Jocelyn, he was taller than I was, maybe about five ten, but his slight stoop made him appear shorter. He seemed too thin for his faded jeans, khaki photographer’s vest, and formerly white T-shirt that must have been washed with the dark clothes. Everything about his face seemed droopy—skin, eyes, mouth. Wrinkles bracketed his mouth. He looked about forty but could have been thirty.

  I asked him, “What would you like? In honor of the Fourth of July, our special coffee today is one of the few coffees grown in the U.S., Ka’u from Hawaii. Like all Hawaiian coffees, it’s mellow and flavorful.”

  Still holding his camera near one shoulder, the man gave me a long, silent, and disapproving look. Without a word, he turned around and walked quickly but quietly out of the café.

  That was odd.

  Jocelyn’s abrupt departure a few moments before was even odder. I traded concerned glances with Tom and then looked for her in the storeroom.

  I found her poking at slotted spoons hanging from hooks. “Do you know that man?” I asked.

  She didn’t t
urn to face me. “No.”

  “He left.”

  “I was just checking on things.” Her voice was small, like she didn’t believe her own words.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No.” Then, more forcefully, “No.” Without turning those dark eyes toward me, she retreated toward the bins of flour. “We have plenty of flour.” She sounded more like her cheerful self, but she didn’t fool me. Something about the man with the camera had alarmed her. Jocelyn was a world-class gymnast. She should have been used to photographers. Maybe she was, and maybe she was also sick of them. A semblance of her smile returned. “It’s nearly nine. If you don’t get out there, Tom might take the car and drive it in the parade.” She skipped back into the kitchen.

  Obviously, she didn’t want me pestering her with questions. Pondering what had just happened or not happened, I chose a clean apron from the shelf and tied it on. Our logo, the black silhouette of a cat wearing a rakishly tilted Deputy Donut hat, was on the bib.

  In the kitchen, Tom was frying donuts, and Jocelyn was mixing frosting. “See you later!” I called.

  Greeting customers, I walked through the rear section of our dining area. Bright morning sunlight poured in through the front windows and gleamed on the red, white, and blue bunting that we’d draped around our pale peach walls. We’d also put red, white, and blue napkins on our glossy sliced tree trunk tabletops. The entire shop felt festive.

  I closed myself into our office. My cat, who had been named Deputy Donut before we’d borrowed the name for our donut shop, was curled on the couch with her tail covering her nose. She stood up and stretched, showing off her ginger, cream, and black tabby stripes and the donut-like circles on her sides. She came to work with me every day, but health regulations didn’t allow her in the kitchen or dining area, so she stayed in our office.

  Tom and I had designed that room to be much more than an office.

  Dep could scramble up carpeted pillars, ramps, and kitty-width staircases to get to and from tunnels and catwalks that Tom and I had built near the ceiling. All four sides of the office had large windows. When Dep wasn’t dozing or cavorting around in her indoor gym, she could sit on wide windowsills and peer into the kitchen, the dining area, the parking lot behind our building, or the driveway leading to the parking lot.

  Having thoroughly stretched, she leaped to the back of the couch and stared up into my eyes. “Meow!”

  I kissed the orange-striped patch on her forehead. “I’m going out without you, but Tom and Jocelyn will cater to your every need. Meow at the window into the kitchen if you want attention.” She didn’t need the advice. I added, “I’ll be back after the parade.”

  She jumped down, turned away from me, and settled into the couch’s comfy cushions. I seemed to be garnering a lot of disapproval, first from that photographer and now from my cat, not that she ever approved of my going anywhere without her.

  After making certain that the office door was locked from the outside, I went to the rear of the parking lot and backed our donut car out of the garage. The car was a meticulously restored four-door Ford. The name of the model was actually Fordor, and there’d been a two-door version which the Ford Motor Company had cutely named the Tudor. Our Fordor was painted like a police car, black with white doors and roof. We had stencilled the Deputy Donut logo on the front doors.

  I loved the Ford’s authentic details, like the large-circumference steering wheel with the gearshift on the steering column, the windows that had to be cranked open and closed, and the two-piece windshield, divided down the middle by a chrome strip. I was particularly fond of a feature that was definitely not vintage. We’d added a giant plastic donut, which lay flat on the car’s roof. White plastic frosting with multicolored sprinkles imbedded in it dripped down the sides of the donut. The sprinkles were lights that could be programmed to dance, either to the music we broadcast through the megaphone-shaped speaker in front of the donut or to preset patterns. None of the lighting displays resembled the strobe lights on actual police cruisers, but they made people smile.

  Following over a hundred years of Fallingbrook tradition, Fourth of July parade participants were supposed to assemble far from downtown, at Fallingbrook Falls. I didn’t have time to drive out to County Road G and take the scenic route. I drove quickly south on Wisconsin Street and then turned onto a tree-lined country road.

  I kept worrying about that photographer in Deputy Donut. Did he frighten Jocelyn or merely surprise and annoy her? I couldn’t believe she was shy about having her picture taken. She was often featured in local papers.

  Feeling responsible for the girl’s safety and comfort when she was working at Deputy Donut, and wondering if Tom and I could gain her trust enough for her to tell us if she was upset, I pulled into the parking lot near the base of Fallingbrook Falls.

  I couldn’t actually see the falls, but I could hear them. I had climbed all of the trails around the falls many times, and I knew how beautiful the roaring sheet of water, the rocky cliffs, and the trees dewy with spray were.

  Carrying clipboards and wearing fluorescent green safety vests crisscrossed by orange and silver Xs, teens directed me to position my car out on the road facing town. My friend Misty Ossler was behind the wheel of a real police cruiser at the beginning of the lineup. A big red fire truck was second. I parked behind the fire truck, rolled my driver’s window all the way down, and got out.

  Breezes teased leaves in the trees shading the road. I leaned against the donut car’s broad front fender and listened to the distant rush of water. Farther down the line of vehicles, people wearing kilts were trying out bagpipes.

  No one had actually marched the entire route from Fallingbrook Falls to downtown Fallingbrook since about the time our donut car was made. These days, parade participants got in line at the falls, drove quickly to downtown Fallingbrook’s outskirts, and then slowed to a normal parade speed. When I was a kid, some of the groups clambered out of their vehicles at that point and marched the rest of the way, but for the past ten or so years, the parade participants simply stayed in their vehicles or on their floats.

  It was nearly time to start. Members of the bagpipe band and the Fallingbrook High Marching Band climbed aboard their floats. The high school kids had labeled theirs FALLINGBROOK HIGH FLOATING BAND.

  I straightened my donut hat and smoothed my apron. Where were my passengers? They had to be among the people milling around on the road.

  Fallingbrook always elected a court to reign over the Fallingbrook Fabulous Fourth Festivities—a queen, a king, a duchess, and a duke. We knew that celebrating Independence Day with a mini-monarchy was a little strange, but we always pointed out that our monarchy was democratically elected and reigned for only a year. The members of our local royalty were always just barely out of their teens. None of it made having a royal court less odd, but we proudly celebrated the holiday the way Fallingbrook always had, except for marching long distances on hot and sunny days.

  This year’s king and queen were supposed to ride in the rear seat of the Deputy Donut car.

  A girl with a clipboard and a megaphone herded two men and a woman toward me, and I figured out which man must be this year’s king. He was one of those tall, chisel-featured, dark-haired, dark-eyed men who, with those bagpipes squalling nearby, would not have looked out of place in a kilt and no shirt. Instead, he wore an open-necked white dress shirt tucked into tight jeans. He had loafers on his feet, and no socks. He looked a little sheepish about the jewel-encrusted gold crown that he could not quite hide behind one muscular thigh.

  Beside him, a similarly young woman in a slinky white gown and a red, white, and blue striped faux-fur cape was hectoring him to put on the crown. She was probably about as short as I was, but her heels made her almost three inches taller. Most of her gleaming brown hair was pinned behind a sparkly red, white, and blue tiara. Tendrils of hair curled artfully around her ears and neck. Her nose and chin were both narrow considering the roundness of her
face and her doe-like brown eyes. “I’ll crown you!” she told the king in a playfully threatening tone. The heels were bright red. The cape was short, barely bigger than a collar, but even in the shade, it looked like overkill on the rapidly warming day.

  I opened the door behind the driver’s seat, swept a curtsy, grabbed my hat before it could land on the pavement, and announced, “Your Majesties, your coach is ready.”

  The king shook his handsome head without disturbing one hair on it. “The queen’s not here.”

  The woman in the red, white, and blue faux-fur capelet gave him a coy smile. “I’ll be queen and ride in her place.”

  The second man, another handsome and very young twentysomething, glared at her. “No, you won’t.” He had to be this year’s duke. The crown on his head was only silver.

  The woman in the tiara dimpled up at him. “Chill. I was only teasing.”

  “And you’re only the duchess.” How had he been elected duke? Usually, personality helped win votes in the Fallingbrook Fabulous Fourth Festivities elections. To be fair, though, this man’s looks went a long way toward making up for his lack of congeniality. He was not quite as tall as the king, but he was every bit as noticeable with his white-blond hair and amazing tan. His woolly black suit probably wasn’t helping his mood.

  “So?” the duchess demanded. “You’re only the duke.” Wearing faux fur around her neck probably wasn’t helping her mood, either.

  The king tapped that bejeweled gold crown against his leg, shifted from foot to foot as if fuzzy caterpillars were checking out his bare ankles, and kept glancing toward town.

  We were supposed to pull out at nine thirty. Nine thirty came and went. Nine thirty-five. Beyond the parking lot, the falls continued their subdued roaring.

  Closer, bagpipes, trumpets, and tubas continued their unsubdued warm-ups.

  Nine forty. The queen did not arrive.