by Jessica Beck
“Suzanne,” Momma scolded me.
“Well, it’s true. I can think of several different things that could have been used instead, like an ice pick, a metal skewer, or even a tent stake, and those are just off the top of my head.”
“Maybe so, but all of those things would have generated a great deal of blood loss if the weapon were removed, and if they were left in, the cause of death would have been immediately obvious,” the chief said.
“So then you believe that whoever did it wanted the crime to go undetected for as long as possible,” I said. “If that’s true, why kill Carson when he was perched on the dunking-booth platform? It’s not exactly the most inconspicuous place in town, is it?”
“I have no idea, but I’ll be sure to ask the killer after I catch them,” the chief said. “Anyway, I thought you’d like to know. I figured that it was the least I could do.”
“Not really. The least you could have done was not tell us a thing,” I corrected him. “We appreciate it.”
“I figured I owed you at least that much,” he said. “Has anything exciting happened with you lately?”
I was certain that Momma was about to tell him, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to share the news about the dummy “body” we’d found in the street.
“We made pumpkin muffins,” I said, cutting Momma off and hoping she would take the hint.
Unfortunately, it sailed right over her head. “Suzanne, have you already forgotten about the body we found just a few minutes ago?”
“What? A body?” the chief asked, his voice raised in agitation. “What are you talking about, Dot?”
“It wasn’t really a body,” I explained, giving my mother an icy stare. If she noticed it, she failed to comment on it or to react to it in any way at all. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to arrange trash in a pair of garbage bags to look like a body.”
“I hate pranks,” the chief said. “Where is it now?”
“It’s in the back of Donut Hearts,” Momma volunteered, “but Suzanne already tore it up.”
“Hey, I had my reasons,” I explained. “I thought it might be a real body at first.”
“Where exactly did you find it?” he asked Momma, ignoring me completely. Who could blame him, really? Momma had turned out to be a wealth of information, after all.
“It was lying in the road,” she said. “Suzanne nearly wrecked the Jeep trying not to run it over.”
“Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. I thought it was real, but it just turned out to be a prank gone bad,” I explained.
“Let’s see it,” the chief said as he started walking toward the back of the shop.
“I’m sure it was just meant to be a joke,” I explained. I wanted to examine that trash myself, not turn it over to the police.
“When whoever did it left it in the middle of the road, the joke ended,” he said. “I’m going to do my best to figure out who’s responsible, and they’re going to pay for their prank.”
There was no talking him out of it, so once he collected the remnants of the “body” we’d nearly run over, the chief left.
“Did you have to tell him everything?” I asked her.
“But I didn’t! I didn’t say one word about Gabby’s friend,” my mother said, clearly feeling a little offended by my accusation.
That was just too bad. “Momma, I wanted to study that trash myself.”
“Suzanne, you said it yourself. There are things we need to let the police handle,” she said, actually scolding me a little. Why did I suddenly feel like I was the one who had just messed up?
“In the future, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me decide what we tell the police and what we hold back,” I said as calmly as I could manage.
“I’m not sure I can agree to that,” Momma said a little stiffly.
I knew there was no point arguing with her, so I decided to drop it for the moment. “Fine. Let’s go back to your cottage. I’m tired, and I have to get up early tomorrow to make donuts.”
“You work too hard,” Momma said, a common theme for her scolding.
“The truth is that I work exactly as hard as I have to,” I said. “If anything, you’re the workaholic in the family, not me.”
“Suzanne, what I do is not work. It’s fun,” she said.
The stress of her life would kill me in a month, and I knew it. I hated the idea of buying and selling properties, turning them over while always striving to make a profit, but it really was a game for her. “Whatever,” I said, not caring to discuss it anymore.
“I hate that phrase,” Momma said. “But ‘no problem’ is even worse. What has happened to our language?”
“I don’t know, Momma,” I said, “and I’m too tired to talk about it right now.”
All I wanted was a long, hot shower and some sleep before it was time to get up and make donuts again.
I was barely aware of it when Jake came to bed, and not much later, I gathered up my clothes, tiptoed out of the bedroom, took a quick shower, and then I went into the kitchen to grab a bite of something before I had to go to work.
Momma was up and waiting for me, something I’d been half expecting based on past experience. There was a bowl of oatmeal on the table for me, as well as a large glass of orange juice. As a rule I wasn’t a fan of oatmeal for breakfast, or any time of day for that matter, but Momma managed to make it taste special. I’d never been able to duplicate it at home, and she’d been reticent to share her secret, no matter how much I’d asked.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I said after I finished, rinsed out my bowl, and put it into the dishwasher. “It was sweet of you to get up.”
“I was more than happy to do it, my dear, sweet child,” Momma said as she kissed my cheek. “Have a good day, and don’t do any sleuthing without me.”
“I’ll try my best to resist the urge,” I said, and then I was off, making my way to the donut shop in the dark, wondering what new things this day was about to bring me.
When Emma came in, she immediately handed me a folded newspaper. “It’s hot off the presses, and I thought you might like a copy.” It was The April Springs Sentinel, her father’s paper. A large photo of the dead man, Carson Winfield, occupied much of the space above the fold. Over his photo was one word, written in large black letters. MURDER.
It was enough to incite a riot, and I was sure that George and Cassandra would have fits when they saw it. Somehow Ray Blake must have had an inside source at the police department. I sincerely doubted that Chief Grant had told him the news personally.
“Your dad isn’t afraid to make a splash, is he?” I asked as I read the article below the fold. It appeared that Carson Winfield had once lived in Union Square, a town not thirty minutes away from us. I’d been wondering about his connections with April Springs, so that could partially explain his presence here. But why kill him now, and in such a convoluted way? Unfortunately, the newspaper was rather sparse on those particular details, not that it kept Ray from speculating on all kinds of things, including the odd choice of location where I’d found Carson’s body. According to one of Ray’s theories, the murder victim had been attacked by a clown who’d been offended by him being on the dunking-tank bench, at least that was what the story implied. Then again, in the next paragraph, Ray suggested that it might have been, in no particular order, a casual acquaintance, an old buddy from high school, a jilted lover from his past, or an alien from outer space. No doubt his theories might sell newspapers, but they would do nothing to help solve the man’s murder.
“Will they cancel Fright Week now?” Emma asked me as she started in on the first round of dishes, bowls, plates, and utensils.
“I have no idea,” I said as I started the second round of my work, creating the raised donuts that would soon complement the cake ones I’d already made.
“Surely you have a guess, though,” she said.
“If I had to say, I’m willing to bet that it will go on as planned, despite the murder,” I said, knowing that i
t was probably true. The town, the mayor, and his girlfriend all had too much invested in the festivities to just let it all vanish. Short of something happening in front of eyewitnesses at high noon to someone prominent in town, I believed that Fright Week would go on.
“I hope you’re right. After all, we have the first round of our donut-decorating contest this morning. Should I start getting ready for that?”
“No, let’s wait and see what happens,” I said. “I could be wrong, you know.”
“You could be, but I doubt it,” she said. “Tell you what. I’ll knock out these dishes, and then we can take our break together.”
“That sounds good to me,” I said, though I wasn’t looking forward to going outside, even with her company. A little less than twenty-four hours before, I’d stumbled across Carson Winfield’s body, and there was a part of me that didn’t ever want to take another break outside again. Then again, I couldn’t let it keep me from living my life.
Soon enough, it was time for our break. I covered the mixer’s bowl full of the dough to give it a chance to proof, and I turned to Emma. She was nearly finished with the dirty dishes.
“Ready?” I asked her as I set my timer.
“You know, we really don’t have to go outside,” Emma said, no doubt sensing my reluctance.
“Nonsense. You know the rules; we take our break outside in rain and even snow.”
“Are you sure?” The concern in her voice was obvious.
“I’m positive,” I said, thankful that I had such a good employee, and a great friend to boot.
“Then grab a jacket. It’s chilly out there,” Emma said, doing her best to ramp up her enthusiasm.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I said as we started for the door. “I came in before you did, remember?”
“Emma, was this here when you came in this morning?” I asked her, holding up a plastic jack o’lantern treat bucket identical to the one I’d found Carson Winfield’s clothes in.
“I don’t think so, but I could be wrong,” Emma said with a shrug. “On the drive over here this morning, I saw them all over town. I’m not surprised, since they gave them away at the grocery store last night to kids under nine.”
I approached the treat bucket cautiously, holding my breath as I peered inside.
Thankfully, it was empty.
Letting my heartbeat get back to normal, I put the jack o’lantern near the trash can and took my seat at the outdoor table where we always took our breaks.
Emma reached into her coat and pulled out something wrapped in foil. “I nearly forgot all about this.”
She handed the package to me, and as I started to unwrap it, I saw that it was a donut. “Gee, thanks, but I don’t really want a donut right now. No offense.”
Emma grinned. “Finish unwrapping it, Suzanne.”
I did as she asked, and I saw that the donut wasn’t the usual round variety. Instead, it was a modified ellipse, with a stem on top and an indentation at the bottom. “It’s a pumpkin,” she said, smiling. “Imagine it decorated in orange icing with eyes and a mouth iced in black. It could be a real hit with our customers.”
I glanced over at the grinning jack o’lantern near the trash and felt a shiver go through me. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it online,” she admitted, finally noticing my uneasiness. “Suzanne, we don’t have to use it. I just thought it might be a hoot for the contest. We can make plain yeast donuts for that if you’d rather.”
“No, this is better,” I said. “It shouldn’t waste much dough, either. Do you have the cutter with you?”
“It’s inside, waiting to be washed. Man, that thing really has you spooked, doesn’t it?” Emma asked as she walked over and picked the jack o’lantern up. “It’s just a piece of plastic. See?” As Emma flipped it around end over end, she glanced down at it, and then she stopped suddenly.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“Suzanne, there’s something written on the bottom of it,” Emma said as she handed it to me.
Written in black magic marker was one word, printed in neat block letters.
STOP.
“What does that mean? Is it directed at us, or is it just some random word printed there? If it is meant for us, are we supposed to stop the contest, stop participating in Fright Week, or stop making donuts altogether? This can’t be meant for us,” Emma said, dismissing it entirely.
“There’s something else you should know,” I said. “Yesterday morning when I took my break, someone leaned a broomstick up against the front glass with a pumpkin mask on it. Then yesterday someone threw their garbage shaped like a body in the road, and I almost ran over it. These can’t be coincidences.”
“Suzanne, people are playing pranks all over town. Jan Kerber had her car windows soaped, and someone put a Styrofoam tombstone in front of our place. Emily told me that she got hit, too. Some genius painted a huge black cat on the front of Cow, Spots, and Moose with the same kind of paint I used to decorate ours.”
I hadn’t heard about that, and somehow the news made me feel a bit better. “What did she do, just wash it off?”
“No, she decided to use it instead, so she painted images of the three guys riding it like cowboys. It’s really kind of cute. She even painted little cowboy hats on all three of them. Don’t take this personally. It’s just somebody’s bad idea of a joke.”
Maybe Emma was right. If people were getting pranked all over town, what had been done to me hadn’t been anything special. It didn’t help that my paranoia levels were ramped up to maximum. Still, I decided to keep the jack o’lantern, just in case.
“Are we holding onto that?” Emma asked a few minutes later when my timer went off, signaling that the dough was ready for its next phase.
“I thought I might keep it for now,” I said. “I made nearly twice the dough for the contest. If no one shows up, we’re going to be throwing away dozens and dozens of donuts.”
“Don’t worry. Every kid in town is going to want to do it, especially since they get to eat their works of art after the judging is over. Are George and Cassandra still picking the winners?”
“You’d better believe it. I have no desire to disappoint all of the kids who lose.”
“It’s brave of them to do it then, isn’t it?” Emma asked.
“I’m not sure I’d call it bravery. I’m just glad that we don’t have to make any decisions,” I said. “Now, let’s see that cutter. I hope it’s strong enough to hold up.”
“It’s going to be fine. Mom and I made a full practice run last night.”
I stopped in my tracks. “I thought you just made one so you could show me. Are you telling me that you made donuts on your one day off from your job making donuts?”
“It does sound crazy when you put it like that,” Emma conceded.
“My friend, you’ve got the donut-making bug as bad as I do,” I said with a laugh, forgetting the murder for a moment, but just a moment.
It was hard not to let it creep back into my thoughts though, and by the time we were ready to open to the public, I’d found myself having a hard time thinking of anything else.
CHAPTER 12
“So, it was murder after all,” Mattie Jones said after she ordered a pumpkin-shaped donut. We’d held back four dozen for the contest, but that had still left us plenty to sell to the general public, and they were a big hit. I hadn’t added eyes and teeth to all of them, and to my surprise, they’d sold well, too. Who knew what the public would like and what they would turn their noses up at. I’d made donuts in the past that I thought were sure winners, only to be rejected by my customers. Some I hadn’t thought good enough to even sell, but Emma had convinced me otherwise, and a few of them had even made it into our regular rotation.
“That’s what I understand,” I said as I gave her change, and then I noticed her shawl. “Did you knit that yourself?”
“I did. It’s nice, isn’t it?” she asked as she twirled aro
und.
“I didn’t know you were a knitter,” I said.
“I used to be, but I gave it up after I made this. You know me. I become obsessed with something, and it’s all I can think about, then I grow bored and switch my attention to something else. Right now it’s cooking in a wok. You should come by and I’ll make you something sometime.”
“Maybe,” I said, filing away the information.
“You’re digging into the crime, aren’t you?” Mattie asked in a conspiratorial voice spoken so softly that only I could hear.
“What makes you ask that?”
“Come on, Suzanne. Nobody could blame you, given that you found the poor man. Was there much blood?” she asked a little too ghoulishly for my taste.
“I can’t really talk about it,” I said, trying not to be too curt to someone who was slowly going from being an infrequent customer to a regular one.
Mattie misunderstood, reading “can’t” as being “not allowed to.” After nodding briefly, she said, “The police don’t want you spreading things around. I get it. Well, good luck.”
I thought about stopping her and correcting her, but a line was forming, and I didn’t really want to get into it with her in front of everyone else there. As usually happened when I was involved in a murder investigation, my customers seemed to come out in droves. I was sure they were all hoping for some insights into the crime, some behind-the-scenes tidbits I might share with them, but I did my best not to get into it, especially when I was actively investigating a case.
“What can I get for you today?” I asked Arthur Bradshaw as he approached the counter, next in line.
“Got any more of those eyeballs?” he asked.
I’d made quite a few more, but they’d been going at a brisk pace, despite their creepy nature. “I don’t have any blues left, but I have two browns, a green, and one that’s bloodshot.”
