Slowly, Amy stepped around the corner from the hallway into the living room. She wore jeans and a t-shirt. Her light brown hair was cut in a short shag, the ends curled up and away from her face. Heather’s mouth dropped open.
“Is it that bad?” Amy asked, raising a hand to her head. She sounded perilously close to tears.
“Bad?” Heather squeaked. “Are you kidding? You look gorgeous!”
“You can tell me the truth,” Amy sniffled. “I can take it.”
“The truth is that you look gorgeous,” Heather repeated. “How can you not like that haircut on you?”
“Because it’s so short,” Amy said. “I’ve never had it this short. Ever. She must have cut off 6 inches.”
“It’s adorable,” Heather insisted. “Look how it frames your face. It really makes your eyes look lovely, too. I wish I could do that to my hair.”
“You do?” Amy said, her voice sounding slightly stronger.
“Yes, I do,” Heather said. She grabbed Amy’s arm and led her down the hall to the bathroom, shoving her in front of the mirror. “Just look at yourself. Most women would kill to look like you.”
“But it’s all spiky on the ends.”
“It’s not spiky, it’s just turned up. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. You’re gorgeous, girlfriend. So it’s shorter than what you’re used to. But it’s perfect. I guess it is a good thing you didn’t have your new ’do before you went out with Chris last night. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands off you.”
“That might have been okay,” Amy said, the first hint of a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. She glanced sideways at Heather. “He did kiss me, though.”
“Of course, he did,” Heather said. “You’re an amazing woman. You’re sweet, and funny, and talented, and kind. And you’re beautiful. You were beautiful then, and your hair looks even more amazing now.”
“Well…maybe it does,” Amy hedged as she peered into the mirror. “I guess it’ll just take some getting used to.”
“When you’re used to it, you’ll love it,” Heather promised.
“Maybe.” Amy’s voice sounded like she might actually believe it. “Thanks for coming over to cheer me up.”
“What are friends for?” she said.
“So what’s the latest about Kelly?” Amy asked as they headed back to the living room.
“Not much,” Heather answered. “All I know is that there were some kids arrested nearby the night she was killed. They had some pot and a gun.”
“Potheads don’t usually go around killing people,” Amy said.
“Yeah, I know. But she had to be bludgeoned with something. Maybe it was their gun. Maybe they were trying to rob her.”
“If you say so.”
“Oh, and do you know Lana Sturmer?”
“No. Who’s that?”
“Apparently a very arrogant diva type who always brought her daughter Emily in to have Kelly do her hair before the beauty pageants she competed in. Some of the competitions, Emily won, and everything was fine. But the last pageant she competed in, she came in runner-up. Lana came back to complain to Kelly. Started yelling at her in front of other customers. Said it was Kelly’s fault Emily hadn’t won.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I can’t stand people like that.”
“Me either. Anyway, it sounds like every potential suspect the police have is a kid or has something to do with the high school.”
“In that case, add one more name to your list,” Amy said.
“What do you mean?”
“Brent Riggleman. He and Kelly had a bad break-up not that long before she died.”
“Brent and Kelly were dating?”
“Well, not exactly,” Amy said. “That was part of the problem. He wanted them to date; she didn’t.”
“Do you think Brent would have killed her over it?”
“Who knows?” Amy led the way into her living room and flopped down on the couch. “It’s always those quiet, bitter types you have to worry about.”
“Was he bitter?” Heather asked, just as she remembered Ryan’s words only hours ago. “Wait. Never mind. Don’t tell me, tell Ryan.”
“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.”
Chapter 5
“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 gu
ess 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?”
Mint Chip Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 6 Page 4
