A small, enclosed space that was probably Christa’s office jutted out into the entryway. The door was closed. Heather tried the knob and found that it turned easily.
Christa’s office was painstakingly neat, as she expected. Everything in its place. Even the three lonely items on the desktop—a clock, a box of Kleenex, and Christa’s computer monitor—were lined up square with the edges of the desk.
She put her hand on the back of the desk chair and swiveled it back and forth. Next to Christa’s desk was a similar leather chair with a lower back.
It was more or less a carbon copy of her office, except for the lack of clutter, and the window. Window? She moved over to it and looked out. It merely faced the alley behind the shop, but at least it let in daylight.
Must be nice, she thought, and mentally scolded herself. She may not have a window in her office, but at least she wasn’t dead.
Heather sat down in Christa’s desk chair and sighed. What had happened here? How had Christa ended up dead?
The detective had asked about allergies. But Christa hadn’t had any that she knew of, and Christa certainly hadn’t been allergic to anything involved in making donuts.
So…what had killed her?
Maybe she had a heart attack. But that didn’t feel quite right. Not unless Christa had some heart condition that Heather hadn’t known about. And there was still the matter of the donut crumbs on Christa’s lips and the half-eaten donut next to her body—things that just weren’t Christa.
Maybe she had fainted for some unknown cause and fallen, hitting her head. You’re reaching, she told herself.
Maybe a stroke? Maybe some kind of previously undiagnosed illness or defect?
Maybe. It was, technically, within the realm of possibility. But none of those scenarios explained either the donut or the crumbs, and certainly not both.
But if Christa’s death hadn’t been from natural causes, that meant someone had caused it. And since there weren’t any signs of a struggle or of a robbery gone awry, and since Shepherd had said there was no evidence of foul play, that left only one possibility.
Christa had been murdered.
It was a possibility. Much as she wanted to believe otherwise, all the clues—meager as they were—seemed to point to the fact that something hinky had gone on.
Wait a minute. You’re not the detective; Shepherd is, she reminded herself. But on the other hand, Shepherd hadn’t seemed to take her seriously when she offered him information that he needed to know if he was going to investigate Christa’s death properly.
And if he wasn’t going to investigate properly…well, then, didn’t that leave it up to her to do some investigating? Didn’t it maybe even make it her duty?
Yes, it did, she decided. Even if she and Christa had had a falling out, Christa was still a human being who didn’t deserve to be murdered. Sent to jail for theft, maybe, but not murdered.
So if Christa’s death really was murder, and if it was Heather’s duty to investigate, then maybe she should start here. In Christa’s office. At the scene of the crime—if it was a crime.
Sitting up straight in the leather chair, she pulled the thin drawer above the kneehole open. She had expected to see the black tray for office supplies such as paper clips, rubber bands, and staples. What she hadn’t expected was for the tray to be in disarray.
A few paper clips were mixed in with the pens. A pad of sticky notes sat on top of the rubber bands, some of which hung over the edges of the tray. The tray was catawampus in the drawer, more than it should have been just because of the drawer’s having been slid open.
It wasn’t, relatively speaking, a big mess; her own desk drawer was far worse. But it wasn’t the way Christa did things.
And what was that pink splotch on the side of the tray? Icing?
She leaned in closer. Yes, that was definitely icing.
This was wrong. All wrong. Either Christa had gone through her desk drawer in a hurry—and then not had time to come back and clean up her mess—or someone else had gone through the drawer. Both possibilities were disquieting.
Heather searched each of the other drawers in turn. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, she stood up and walked swiftly through the kitchen. She paused when she came to the customer area where the tables and chairs were set up, waiting for customers that would never come.
Which table had Christa been found under? she wondered, and wished she had asked Detective Shepherd. Maybe that would have given her a better clue as to what had happened here.
She walked slowly toward the front of the shop, stopping halfway between the glass display case and the front door. Christa’s Creations didn’t look like a crime scene. No fingerprint powder covered any of the tables or chairs, all of which sat perfectly aligned in their places as if waiting for the shop to open in the morning. She glanced at the floor. There were no bloodstains. There was no chalk outline.
She turned, made her way back to Christa’s office, and grabbed her purse. Shut the desk drawer, rolled the chair back into place, and stopped, her hand on the light switch. Something wasn’t right—and not just the fact that Christa was dead. What was it?
Glancing around the office one more time, she still saw nothing that would account for the strange feeling. Frowning, she turned off the light and hurried to the back door. She let herself out, locked the door behind her, and walked quickly back around to the front of the building.
Heather had to wait for a car to pass. When it did, she crossed the street to her own car, let herself in, and put her purse on the seat beside her. She started the car and backed out of the parking space, turning back in the direction of her shop. She was going to find Detective Shepherd’s card and call the number on it. Even if he didn’t take her seriously, she had to try to get him to listen.
Because there was no longer any doubt in her mind. Christa hadn’t died of natural causes, or even an accident.
Christa had been murdered.
Chapter 3
At a stoplight, Heather used her cell phone to dial Donut Delights. The more she thought about Christa’s death, the more questions surfaced in her mind. She wanted to go home and do some online research in the hope of getting some answers.
“Donut Delights; this is Michelle.”
“Hey, it’s me. I need you to do me a favor. Can you go in the top drawer of my desk and get the business card Detective Shepherd gave me, and give me his cell phone number?”
“Top drawer of your desk.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, hold on.” Heather drove in silence for a minute until Michelle’s voice came back on the line. “You want his cell phone number?”
“Yeah, but I can’t write it down right now because I’m driving, so give it so me slowly. Better yet, text it to me, will you?”
“Sure,” Michelle said. “What’s going on?”
“I just need to talk to him about Christa,” she said.
“Okay,” Michelle said. Heather could almost hear the frown in her voice. “Well—I’ll text it to you.”
“Thanks,” she said. She ended the call and waited for Michelle’s text to come through. When it did, she clicked on the link and pressed the green phone icon.
It rang 6 times before Detective Shepherd’s voice answered. “You have reached Detective Ryan Shepherd—” Aagghh! she thought. Voice mail! “—of the Hillside Police Department. I can’t take your call right now. At the tone, please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Beep.
“Detective Shepherd, this is Heather Janke, from Donut Delights. You came to my office this morning about Christa Fordyce’s death. I have some more information I’d like to give you. Please call me at your earliest convenience. Thanks.” She ended the call and scowled. Now she would have to wait for answers to her questions—if Shepherd would even answer them at all.
Oh, well. Maybe she could find something out online. Google could tell you just about anything nowadays. But where
would she start?
Joey Gorham, that’s where. True, Christa had never shared much about her personal life, but to hire an ex-boyfriend as her assistant? That was just weird.
If that’s what Christa had done—and apparently it was—there had to be some reason. Were they getting back together? Had Christa decided that she loved him after all?
What did Joey look like? Heather wondered. Maybe he was really good-looking or charismatic or something. Hmm. But would those qualities alone be enough to make Christa forget she was dating a drug dealer?
Or did Joey have some kind of hold on her because of Billy? Maybe now that he was out of prison, Joey needed a job. Although didn’t selling drugs make a lot of money? Why would he have needed another job? Was he trying to turn respectable?
The phone lying in her lap started belting out, “Here Comes the Sun,” and Heather snatched it up. Whose number was that? “Hello?”
“Ms. Janke, this is Detective Shepherd,” the voice said. “You called and said you had some information for me?”
“Yes. I was just at Christa’s shop, and Billy showed up.
“Who?”
“Billy. Christa’s brother. You know, William Edwin Fordyce III?”
“Go on.”
“Well, Billy showed up and gave me the key to Christa’s shop. So I—”
“Wait a minute. Did you go there for the purpose of meeting Billy and getting the key?”
“No. I just went there because—well, I don’t know why. Just to check things out, I guess.”
“The police are quite capable of taking care of business,” Shepherd said.
“Look,” she said, “do you want to hear this or not?”
“I’m listening,” Shepherd said.
What an arrogant—
She cut herself off in the middle of a thought. At least he was listening, and that was something. Might as well tell him what she had to tell him, while she had the chance.
“I just got the urge to go see her shop. So I was standing there, looking in the front window, and Billy came up behind me. Scared me half to death. Anyway, we had this weird conversation. It didn’t entirely make sense, you know? And he looked like—well, never mind.”
“He looked like what?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want to get him in trouble in case I—well—it’s just that his eyes were watery and bloodshot,” she said.
“He was high?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that his eyes were watery and bloodshot,” she repeated. “And that he handed me Christa’s key and said he didn’t need it anymore.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“No idea. He handed me the key and just left. The key was to the back door of Christa’s shop. So I went in.”
“Of course you did,” Shepherd said.
She ignored him. “I looked around a little bit. Like, at the front of her shop and—around her desk. And I noticed something. The black tray in her top desk drawer—you know, the one that holds paper clips and stuff—was all messed up. And there was a smudge of pink icing on the side of the tray.”
For a moment, there was silence, and Heather wondered if she’d somehow lost the connection with Shepherd’s phone. Then he said, “You’re nosy, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?” she said.
Now it was Shepherd’s turn to ignore her. “Her desk drawer was messy. And you find this significant because…?”
“I told you Christa was always neat. Always. Having a messy desk drawer with icing on it, for goodness’ sake, is not something she would do. Something’s wrong there.”
“So who do you think messed up her desk drawer if it wasn’t Ms. Fordyce herself?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the killer.”
Again, there was silence before Shepherd said, “Ms. Janke, thank you for the information. But please leave the investigating to the police. It’s what we get paid to do. We’re good at it.”
“Aren’t you going to take my information seriously?” she asked.
She heard a faint sigh. “We will give it due consideration,” Shepherd said.
Yeah, I’ll just bet you will, she thought, clamping her lips shut so the words wouldn’t actually come out of her mouth.
“What about an autopsy?” she demanded as she coasted to a stop at a stoplight.
“An autopsy is always done in cases of sudden, unexplained death.”
“How long does it take to get results?”
“That all depends.”
“On what?”
“On a variety of factors.”
“Factors which you’re not going to discuss with me?”
“Ms. Janke, we don’t discuss everything about an open case with civilians. Only with people who have a need to know, or who can help with the investigation in some way.”
Well. That made his position pretty clear.
“All right, then,” she said. “Thank you for your time, Detective Shepherd.”
“My pleasure,” Shepherd said, and hung up on her.
Heather tossed her cell phone in the general direction of her purse and pounded on the steering wheel with both hands. “Aagghh!” she screamed.
Too late, she remembered that her driver’s side window was open. She glanced to her left and saw the elderly male passenger in the car next to her staring at her, eyes wide. She grinned sheepishly and waggled her fingers at him in a brief wave before turning to stare straight ahead.
Would the light never change? Come on, change. Change, change, change.
When the light finally turned green, the Honda’s tires squealed as she zipped through the intersection.
Chapter 4
Heather pulled into her driveway and stopped her car just short of the detached garage. She gathered up her purse, located her cell phone on the floorboards, and entered the house through the back door into the kitchen.
Her dog, Dave, met her, his pink tongue lolling, his furry white body wiggling and squirming with eagerness. Heather reached down and scratched his ears, then went over to the counter. Dave followed her, knowing what was coming.
She reached into a ceramic cookie jar decorated with dog bones and withdrew one of Dave’s favorite treats. Bending down, she offered it to him, waited for him to slurp it up and then crunch it to bits, and let him out into the back yard to do his business.
Her computer was in the smaller of the two bedrooms, which she had converted into a guest room-slash-office. She sat down in front of it, wiggled the mouse to activate the screen, and clicked on the icon to open her browser.
Joey Gorham, she typed into Google. But the first page of results yielded only results for a Joey Gorham, otherwise known as Joseph Don Gorham, who had apparently served time in prison for selling drugs. Huh.
She was about to go to the next page of results when a line of text caught her eye. Apparently, the articles about Joseph Don Gorham were published in the Waco Tribune, only 45 minutes’ drive from Hillside. She clicked on the first result and began to read the article that appeared.
Joseph Don Gorham, also known as “Joey,” had been tried and convicted of possession of cocaine with intent to distribute. He had served two years in prison. She clicked on the next result and was directed to another Tribune article. Joey Gorham’s trial had lasted for a week. The prosecutor had taken two days to put on his case; the defense attorney, three. In the end, the jury had taken thirty minutes to find Gorham guilty.
Every result on the first page pertained to the same Joey Gorham. A parade of character witnesses had all testified to his upstanding character; the defense attorney was quoted as scoffing that his client was being “railroaded without proof.”
Could this possibly be the same Joey Gorham that Christa had dated, who was now her assistant? Surely not. Christa came from a wealthy, socially prominent family. Why would she hire this weasel, much less date him?
She clicked through a few more results, but they didn’t yield any information that made sense.
Nor did they establish any connection between Joey and Christa. So Heather called up Google and typed “Joseph Gorman and Christa Fordyce” into the search box.
The first result was for Joseph Don Gorham and—her mouth dropped open as she read the name. William Edwin Fordyce III.
According to the article, apparently Joey and Billy had been driving somewhere together in Billy’s Mercedes when they were stopped by a police officer for expired registration. One thing led to another, and both men were arrested for possession of cocaine.
Was Joey Gorham Billy’s drug connection? Did Billy buy from him?
If that was true—and as she continued to explore other search results, it looked more and more like it was—then that was even more reason why Christa should never have wanted anything to do with him.
Strawberry Cream Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 1 Page 2
