Chapter 13
Amy took the steps to the front doors of the police station two at a time. She stopped on the 'crete landing, swiveled, then ran back down them again, swivel, right back up. Repeat, no rinsing.
"Do I want to know what you're doing?" Heather asked, and leaned against the balustrade, gaze chasing her bestie up and down, up and down the stairs.
"It's called a preemptive strike," Amy replied.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning this morning's proceedings have stressed me out so much that I'm going to need at least two Cherry Dream Donuts to restore my oxytocin to optimum levels." Amy jogged back down the stairs again.
"Oxytocin?"
"It's a hormone. The hug hormone."
"Surely, you can't get the hug hormone from food? Isn't that dopamine?"
"You underestimate the extent of my relationship with your donuts." Amy went back up again.
"And how many trips up and down the stairs am I going to be treated to before you've worked off the ghost calories?"
Amy paused at the top of the stairs. She wetted her lips and -
The doors to the station opened and Ryan strode out, cradling a dossier.
"Ah. Saved by the officer," Heather said.
"You'd think you were the one doing the exercise." Amy plonked down on the top stair and balanced her wrists on her knees. "What's happening? Did Poot confess?"
"Poot," Ryan said, lips writhing in place, "did not confess. He gave me a story about a ring and his pregnant Barbie."
"That's his wife." Heather aimed that at her bestie before she could say something highly inappropriate. "Is that all? Nothing else?"
"He offered up DNA for testing. I took a swab. So, either we'll prove he killed Catherine or we'll eliminate him as a suspect. Either result is good."
"What's with the folder?" Amy asked.
Ryan flipped open the dossier and drew out a picture. "This is what we got from him. A picture of the missing ring."
Heather took it and frowned at the image of Catherine Willard. She was younger and took a model pose, smiling off to one side, the light striking her high cheek bones and her spun gold hair. She held her hand to her face, displaying the ring. It was breathtaking.
A decorative platinum rose with a sapphire at its center.
Ames pushed up and came over to check it out. "Wow. That's gorgeous. She's gorgeous." Her voice dropped low, and the sorrow she often hid crept through the cracks. "I can't believe her life ended that way."
Heather wobbled the photograph. "This is good," she said. "That we have a picture, I mean. Can I take this, hon?"
"Yeah, that's a copy," he said. "Go ahead and take it."
"Thanks." If they could find the ring, they might be able to find the killer. Heather took the folder from her husband and tucked the picture back into its cardboard arms. "So that's it? Poot's going to go free?"
"Oh no, no," Ryan said. "I got an exceptionally angry call from Mr. Schulz. He's definitely pressing charges."
"I don't blame him. You should've seen Poot. He was so angry, pressed him right up against a wall and threatened him," Heather said. "And all over this ring. I suppose it would be more accurate to say it's all over the chance to provide for his family." Could she blame Poot for trying? And why did it feel so ridiculous to even think his name?
Maybe because every time she said it Amy's eyebrows did a dance and she breathed a little too fast.
"I'd better get back in there," Ryan said. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You two stay out of trouble."
"That's like asking the sun not to shine." Amy gave him a double thumbs up.
Ryan hesitated and worked her answer over. He shook his head then trooped back into the station. Poor Detective Shepherd. He had his hands full with criminals, murder cases, and a pair of private investigators with a penchant for sniffing out trouble wherever they went.
"Shall we?" Heather asked, and gestured to the Chevrolet with the dossier. "Or you'd prefer to jog back to Donut Delights? Work off more of those ghost calories?"
"That's just crazy talk," Amy said. "Just how many donuts do you think I'm going to eat? Don't answer that."
Heather strolled down the stairs and Amy lurched up and followed her.
The station's doors clanged open behind them. "Wait," Ryan called, panting. "Wait, just a sec."
"I was kidding about the sun thing," Amy said.
Heather's insides swirled. Her sleuthin' gene did a tickly dance along its chromosome. "What's happened?" She asked, and turned to her hubby.
"Just got a call from Hoskins. He's down at the Fishing Best whatsit place."
"Best Fishin' Camp," Heather said, and her pulse ticked up a notch. "What is it?"
"Patsy Willard's gone. The owner of the camp says he saw her run out of there a half hour ago. He said she was a pink streak, whatever that means."
Amy and Heather looked at each other, expressions identical.
"What?" Ryan clicked his knuckles. "What is it?"
"Tell Hoskins she's wearing a magenta tracksuit. And tell him to check the woods near the South Bosque River," Heather said.
"The diary?" Ryan asked.
"Yeah. She's probably looking for it," Heather replied. "Or she's hit the ground running."
"But why?" Amy asked. "We know the killer was a man, right? So why would she run? There wasn't that much in the diary and certainly nothing that could incriminate her."
Heather pressed her lips together. "Maybe she's not running from the cops. Maybe she's running from her father." If Poot had been desperate for money, wasn't there a chance that he'd wanted to drop Patsy off with her great aunt and leave her there? What if Patsy had other plans? None of it made much sense.
"I'm on it," Ryan said and darted back into the station.
Heather made for the Chevrolet. Patsy and her magenta tracksuit would have to wait. They had donuts to serve and a ring to find. "Find the ring, find the killer." Find Clarke.
Chapter 14
Amy made good on her promise to devour as many donuts as cortisol she'd gained. She ate three, then broke for a cup of bitter coffee with Eva Schneider at their special spot in the front of the store.
Heather finished up her turn manning the counter and gave way to Maricela, who'd already finished her kitchen duty for the day. They kept a rotation like that, so everyone got a turn in the different regions. Luckily, they all loved the kitchen, but Emily and Ken were the best at the front of house stuff.
Maricela had little patience for people who took their time deciding which donut to eat. Somehow, she managed to sell them a selection each time.
Heather took a seat across from Eva and Ames, then plopped a plate on the table. "Morning rush done. Time for an afternoon snack and a cup of coffee."
"Ugh," Amy said. "I don't know how you can eat all those donuts."
Heather and Eva giggled at that. "Don't be such a hypocrite," Heather said.
"Don't you mean hypocreet? Patsy, remember?" Amy slurped her coffee. "I wonder whether they caught her or not?"
"Ryan would've called with an update if they had," Heather said, and shrugged. She couldn't bring herself to focus on Patsy's escape other than a fear she'd wind up in trouble with one of the locals. Folks didn't take kindly to trespassing or people creeping through their section of the woods.
"You're not even worried about it," Amy said. "Why? I know the killer's DNA is male, but this could be a lead. Why don't you care?"
Heather shrugged again and took a bite of her donut. Glace cherries crunched between her teeth and filled her mouth with sweet, stickiness. Gosh, she adored owning a bakery.
"Don't avoid my question, Shepherd." Amy had lowered her voice.
Eva didn't seem in the least bit concerned about their conversation. She paged through her newspaper, licking her thumb to get a better grip every now and again.
"Why are you pushing?" Heather asked.
"Because I know what's on your mind and I'm here to provide the
even keel. The temperament of an investigator."
"An investigator who hangs out windows?" Heather asked.
"I refuse the secondhand smoke, Heather. I refuse it." Ames waved her hands, tickling her fingers on invisible piano keys. "And that's beside the point. You're still fixed on that Clarke guy."
"So what if I am?"
"So what if you are? Are you kidding?" Amy clicked her tongue. "Okay, look, I know you've been doing this way longer than I have, right?"
"Right."
"Never forgetting I did get Lemon fired from the Hillside Reporter and stopped the slew of negative articles about you in that," she said and jerked her thumb toward the paper in front of Eva.
"Is this a personal ad? Or do you have a point?"
"Ooh, catty," Ames said. "My point is, I might not be as experienced as you but I'm here to tell you when I think you're maybe, I don't know, heading in the wrong direction?"
Heather appreciated her best friend. She never held back her honest opinion and that was part of the reason they'd remained friends for years. She could trust Ames to be brutal about the truth. It didn't reduce the sting, however, or Heather's kneejerk angry response.
"How do you know it's the wrong direction?" Heather asked. "How do we know that he isn't behind it?"
"We don't. But we're wasting time trying to shove an octopus into an eight-armed sweater by going after him," she replied. "Let's face it. Unless we have his DNA on the scene, we're not going to get him behind bars."
And no chance Clarke would offer up his precious DNA for comparison. Unless he was already in the database. But wait, he'd never been arrested. "Ugh."
"I know. But we've got to focus on the facts. I mean, think about this for a second, why would he even steal that heirloom ring thing? He'd have no use for it."
"That's it," Heather said. "The ring. I completely forgot about that." She fished both her cell and the picture of Catherine Willard out of her apron pouch.
Eva lifted her gaze from the paper. "Oh, she's lovely. What a beautiful woman."
"That's the murder victim from back in the day," Heather said. She tapped Catherine's hand. "And that's the missing ring. We've got no way of bringing Mikey in for questioning since he hasn't technically done anything but chew gum and take a walk in a park. And we don't have another male suspect apart from Poot."
"And he gave a DNA sample," Amy said.
"Which leaves us with the ring." Heather unlocked her phone and clicked through to her keypad. "I think I might know a guy who can tell us whether that ring's been sold in Hillside. Think about it, if the murder was actually motivated by burglary, the thief would've wanted to get rid of the item as soon as possible."
"But in Hillside itself? Would he be dumb enough to do that? It's totally traceable."
"If he's dumb enough to hock up a wad of gum at a crime scene, you can bet his dumb enough to hawk a ring down the road from the crime scene," Heather said. Dumb or sloppy.
"Down the road? You don't mean..."
"Pawn Shop Paulo. I'm calling him," Heather said and dialed the number. She pressed the phone to her ear and listened to the rings.
"Who's Pawn Shop Paulo?" Eva whispered.
"Guy who owns the Pawn Shop."
Eva rolled up her newspaper with care, then whacked Amy on the top of her head with it. "You and your smart mouth."
"Allo?" Paulo answered, in a dull rumble which was the premise of the eternally bored.
"Paulo, it's Heather Shepherd. From Donut Delights?"
"Oh hey, Mrs. Shep, what's happenin'?"
"I need to know if you've had anyone come in and sell you a ring in the last week," she said. "Scratch that, the last few days."
"Sure," he said. "Rings are a popular seller. You got something in mind? Looking to treat Mr. Shepherd to something special?"
"No," Heather said. Ryan wasn't into jewelry other than a watch and his wedding ring. "No, this is for a case. In fact, I'll come down there in a couple minutes with a picture. That okay?"
The bell above the door tinkled. Amy's eyes went wide as donuts.
"No problem, Mrs. Shep. You come on over and I'll sort you out."
"Thanks," Heather said and hung up. "Good news, Paulo says that -”
Two fingers, each bearing a golden ring, pressed down on Catherine Willard's picture and pinned it to the table.
Heather tracked a line from the fingernails, up the hand and suited arm, to the shoulder and into the face of Lyle Clarke, supposed Mafioso and dangerous man.
"What do we have here?" He asked.
Chapter 15
"I believe you call it a rude interruption," Heather replied and slipped the picture out from under his bejeweled fingers. "At least, that's what we Texans call it."
"Mrs. Shepherd," Lyle Clarke purred. An oversized cat but he hadn't gotten the cream yet. "It's wonderful to see you again." He threw his arms open to encompass the interior of Donut Delights. "And your lovely store too. I hear such good things about this place. My assistants tell me the donuts are delicious. A pity I didn't get to taste one the last time I was here."
Heather rose from her seat and met him stare for stare. Amy tugged on the back of her apron. "You can thank your friend Kate for that," Heather said. "She was the one who caused a commotion in my store."
"Friend?" Clarke's sharky grin resurfaced. "She's not my friend. She's an associate. I've always admired Kate's tenacity. A bit hotheaded but she's ambitious."
"Ambitious enough to send her brother to start a business for her,' Heather snapped. Amy tugged again and she flapped a hand behind her back at her friend. She had this under control. She clung to her anger by the skin of her teeth.
Clarke didn't appear offended. He scanned the interior of the bakery, still smiling, and solid as a rock. A gale couldn't have pushed the man over, possibly because he'd withstood much worse. The full force of the law, for instance.
"I really do love what you've done with this place," he said and directed his grin at Maricela behind the counter.
Maricela frowned at him and pursed her lips. She'd always been a good judge of character.
"Thank you," Heather said. She lifted the picture of Catherine off the table and slipped it into her front pocket. She followed it up with her phone. "I like what we've done with it too."
"We?"
"My assistants. My family."
"Oh yes, of course," Clarke said. "Family." The word was foreign on his tongue. "You know, I have an associate who'd love to own a bakery just like this one. I bet she could run one brilliantly." He pivoted and focused on the street outside this time. "I mean look at it. Prime position in the center of town. Plenty of customers come this way to get to work."
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just that you're lucky to have it." Clarke's attention flickered to her, to the top of her messy bun then down her apron and to the tips of her sensible pumps. She was nothing under that gaze. A baker at best. "You do want to stay lucky, I assume?"
"Is that a threat?" Heather whispered, and raised her chin.
"Of course not." Clarke brushed off the lapels of his fancy suit. "I told you, Mrs. Shepherd. I don't make threats. I hand out invitations." He stepped in close. So close Amy sucked in a gasp and Eva said, "Well, I never."
Lyle smelled strongly of Jean Paul Gautier cologne. Alarm bells dinged in Heather's mind.
"And this is your invitation, Mrs. Shepherd," he muttered, bathing her in discomfort. "To leave me alone. Because if you don't..." He clicked his tongue and shifted his head to the right, then left and back to the center. A single shake. "Who knows what might happen? This is an unpredictable town."
Heather didn't dare step back. She wouldn't allow him the satisfaction of her giving ground. "Get out," she said, between gritted teeth, "of my store."
"Not for long." Clarke tapped the side of his nose. "Not for long." And with that he departed, leaving a storm of cologne and anger behind him.
Heather clenched her
fists so hard her fingernails cut into her palms.
None of the customers had noticed anything irregular about the exchange. They gobbled donuts and chatted to each other, drank coffee and shakes. Her customers. In her store.
Not for long. Clarke's threat rang through her mind. He wouldn't try to murder her, surely? No, this had to be a ploy to freak her out. Chase her from the store.
"Boy," Amy said, "you're good at making friends, Heather."
Eva whacked her on top of the head with the newspaper again. “Shush, you.”
“Is there a picture of Clarke in there?” Heather asked. “In the paper?”
“Yes, in the center pages,” Eva replied. “Why, dear?”
“Could I borrow that?” Heather took the copy of the Hillside Reporter from her oldest friend, then tucked it under her arm. “You coming, Ames? I’ve got to see a man about a ring.”
“You’re kidding. You’re still – after - ?”
“Of course,” Heather said. She’d never faced off against a white collar criminal of Clarke’s proportions before, but goodness now seemed a good time to start. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 16
Paulo's Pawn Shop hovered on the corner of suburbia and the downtown collection of stores, restaurants and their only antique store. It'd sprung up not long after Heather's bakery had taken root, but it attracted a diverse selection of clientele.
Take the elderly woman in the beanie and lumo green sneakers in front of the counter for instance. She reached across the space, pinched Paulo's tan cheek, and cooed, "Thanks, darlin'. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Have a good afternoon, Betty."
The woman hurried past them, grinning from ear to ear and missing three teeth. Her two top incisors and a bottom pre-molar.
Heather stepped up and fished the picture of Catherine out of her Donut Delights apron. She hadn't bothered changing out of it for this. "Afternoon, Paulo," she said.
Paulo ran a hand through the short fluff of hair on his head. He nodded to her. "Sup, Mrs. Shep," he said. "You got that picture for me?"
"I sure do," she said and drew it out of her pocket. She placed it face up on the glass counter, and it was framed by the watches, rings, army knives and other trinkets on the shelf below.
Cherry Dream Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy - Book 43 (Donut Hole Cozy Mystery) Page 5
