Maple Frosted Murder (Donut Hole 2)

by Susan Gillard

  So the M.O. didn’t allow her to eliminate anyone from the list of suspects. Neither did the timing—at least as far as she knew. Hmm. That was something to ask Ryan about. Which of the suspects had an alibi?

  Dave hopped down from his place on her bed and whined. He walked toward the bedroom door, whined some more, and looked back at her.

  “I’m coming,” she said, yawning, and threw the covers back. She wouldn’t be going back to bed. As long as she was going to be wide awake anyway, it was better to make coffee and drink a cup or two. Maybe then something would click in her brain and everything would become clear.

  I wish, she thought as she cracked open the back door and prodded Dave out into the cold morning air with her foot pushing against his bottom.

  ***

  A few hours later, as she sat shivering in her car and waiting for the engine to warm up and the vent to start blowing hot air, she was glad that at least there would be no graveside service. Stan had been cremated.

  Thank you, Stan, she thought silently as she put the car in gear and backed out of the driveway.

  The memorial service was to be held at St. Stephen’s, one of the larger churches in town. For now, though, she turned in the opposite direction from the church and headed towards Amy’s house.

  She pulled into Amy’s driveway, and, when she didn’t see her friend come rushing out the door, picked up her cell phone to call. But just then, the front door opened, and Amy zipped out, slammed it behind her, jiggled the knob, then raced to the car. “Unlock the door!” she screamed when lifting up on the handle produced no results.

  “Sorry,” Heather said as Amy finally slid into the car. “I forgot.”

  “Are you trying to freeze me to death?” Amy demanded. “Because it almost worked.”

  “This is nothing,” Heather said. “I lived in New York for a while, remember? Those were cold winters. 32 degrees doesn’t even rank as cold.”

  “Says you,” Amy said, ducking her chin into the collar of her coat. “Brr.”

  “At least there won’t be a graveside service,” Heather said cheerfully.

  “There won’t? Why not?”

  “Stan was cremated.”

  “Good ol’ Stan,” Amy said.

  ***

  St. Stephen’s sat at the top of a hill, its parking lot—which didn’t appear to hold very many cars—spread out next to it. Heather glanced at the dashboard clock, saw that there were only 15 minutes left until the service was to start, and frowned. “Where is everybody?”

  “Probably inside,” Amy said. “Nobody’s gonna linger in the parking lot when it’s this cold.”

  “But there aren’t very many cars.”

  “Good. Maybe we can get a parking spot close to the doors.”

  Finding a parking spot was easy enough. Heather locked up the car, and the two women hurried through the main doors and into the foyer of the church. A few mourners milled around, talking in hushed tones. A man in a dark-colored suit stood next to a small table that held the guest book, a pen in a gold holder, and a stack of programs.

  Heather and Amy didn’t know any of the people congregated in the foyer, so they stepped over to the table. The man standing next to it said nothing, merely nodding at them as they signed their names and then each picked up a program.

  They entered the sanctuary, and the doors closed behind them. “Who was that?” Amy whispered, referring to the man standing beside the table.

  “No clue,” Heather replied, scanning the sanctuary.

  The pews were only partially filled. Plenty of seats were still available. She slipped into a pew halfway back in the sanctuary, at the rear of the small group of people assembled, and Amy followed her.

  Heather glanced through her program, then up toward the front of the church. “Hey, look, there’s Rob Gingrich,” she said to Amy.

  “Where?”

  “Three rows in front of us. Right by the outside aisle.”

  Amy located him and nodded.

  “And there’s Ben. Stan’s assistant.” Heather nodded towards his former employee, who was seated across the aisle and a few rows up from them.

  “Where’s Gary Larkin?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “Me either,” Heather whispered.

  At ten o’clock sharp, as the minister respectfully took his place in front of the congregation, Mr. Guest Book escorted Sheila down the aisle to the front pew. When he sat down next to her, Amy turned to Heather, her eyebrows raised. Heather shrugged subtly. I don’t know.

  The service took a mere thirty minutes. At one point, Heather saw Sheila raise a handkerchief to her eyes, but when Sheila lowered the square of fabric, she didn’t appear to have been crying at all. Not just then, and maybe never. Is she really a grieving widow, or just playing the part? Heather wondered.

  At the end of the service, the minister pronounced a benediction. Heather and Amy stood and moved into the aisle, turning toward the rear of the church, in the opposite direction from those making their way to the front to offer their condolences.

  As they made their way down the aisle, Heather spotted a familiar figure standing respectfully near the back. “Hello, Ryan,” she said as they approached.

  “Ladies,” he greeted them.

  “Ah, yes,” Amy said. “The investigating detective would attend the funeral of the victim.”

  With a nod, he conceded the point.

  “Do you know who that man was who was sitting by Sheila Dombrowski?” Heather asked.

  “Gary Larkin,” Shepherd said.

  “That’s Gary Larkin? The one Stan thought kicked him off the Chamber of Commerce board because he was power hungry?”

  “The very same.”

  “Hmm. Sitting right next to the grieving widow.”

  Something apparently caught Shepherd’s eye then, because he glanced over Heather’s shoulder, said, “Excuse me,” and made his way past them and up the aisle.

  “Guess your friend has business to take care of,” Amy said as they made their way to the car.

  “He’s not my ‘friend,’” Heather said.

  “You called him ‘Ryan.’”

  “That’s his name.”

  “His first name. What ever happened to Detective Shepherd?”

  Heather felt her cheeks growing warm despite the chilly air. Fortunately, they had reached the car. “Here we are!” she said brightly, and pushed the button on her key fob to unlock the doors.

  Once inside, she started the car, studiously avoiding Amy’s gaze. But she could feel Amy’s eyes on her, and finally, she glanced over at her friend. “What?” she asked, in what she hoped was an innocent voice.

  “Oh, nothing,” Amy said, giving her a knowing smile.

  ***

  After driving Amy home and going home herself to change clothes, Heather drove to Donut Delights. Might as well put in a couple hours, at least.

  She bustled through the door just in time to see Eva turn away from the counter holding a box of donuts. “Eva!” she called out.

  Eva turned, and a smile lit her face. “Heather! I thought I had missed seeing you today.”

  “I was late because I went to Stan Dombrowski’s funeral. Had to drop my friend off, then go home and change.”

  “Sad business, that,” Eva said. “Who would want to kill Stan?”

  Heather glanced around to verify that no one was nearby. “Everyone, apparently,” she said. “Or at least, it seems that nobody much really liked him.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “I was fortunate to have 52 years with Erich,” Eva said, emotion lighting her eyes. “52 years of loving deeply, and being loved equally well.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Heather said.

  “Ours was a beautiful love,” Eva said, smiling despite her sudden tears. “Someday, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “I’d love to hear about it,” she said, meaning it. “I
’d be honored.”

  Eva patted the box of donuts. “Well, I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’m taking donuts to friends at Hillside Manor. Not everybody is as fortunate as I am and can still live on their own.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” Heather said. “Let me give you a few more donuts to take.”

  “I’ve got what I need for my friends today,” she said, “but I’ll take some for the nurses. Nurses love donuts, you know. Plus, it never hurts to have the nurses on your side.”

  “Very true,” Heather said. She slipped behind the counter and quickly boxed a dozen different gourmet donuts.”

  “Do you think a dozen will be enough?”

  “Oh, yes,” Eva said. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re very welcome. Any time you pick up donuts for your friends, let me know, and I’ll throw in a box for the nurses.”

  “You’re very kind,” Eva said, smiling. “Thank you again.”

  Heather watched the elderly woman make her slow but steady way to the door. “52 years,” she mumbled to herself. “Wow.” Too bad she and her ex-husband, Don, hadn’t lasted 52 years.

  Would Sheila and Stan have lasted 52 years? she wondered, as she turned back towards the kitchen. Doubtful.

  Speaking of Sheila…she still needed to ask Ryan about the suspects’ alibis for the night of the murder.

  Chapter 8

  She got her opportunity when the door opened, and a gust of wind blew Ryan inside. “Wow, it’s brisk out there,” he said.

  “You’re a Southern boy, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Born and bred right here in Texas,” he said. “You from somewhere else?”

  “I lived in New York for a few years,” she said.

  “Ah. Then you’re not impressed by what we call ‘winter.’”

  She smiled. “Not so much. It’s nice not to have to deal with snow and ice, though. So, how may I help you? Are you back for more donuts?”

  “And a large coffee. You may not be cold, but I am.”

  “What kind of donut would you like?” she asked as she reached for the coffee pot and a cup.

  “Hmm.” He walked up and down in front of the glass display cases, peering into them, until she set the cup of coffee on top of the case next to him. “I can’t decide,” he said finally. “What do you recommend?”

  “Try the White Christmas,” she suggested. “Frosted in white vanilla frosting with peppermint crumbles.”

  “I’ll try it,” he said.

  “Are you going to be eating here, or getting these to go?”

  “Here, I think.”

  “Good. I have some questions for you.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Have a seat, and I’ll bring your order to you.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He chose a table by the window as she placed the donut on a plate and then put the plate and the coffee cup on a small tray along with a thick paper napkin.

  “I remembered you like your coffee black,” she said as she set the tray on his table and sat down across from him.

  “Thanks,” he said as he dug into the donut.

  “I try to make it a practice to remember all my customers’ likes and dislikes,” she said.

  He nodded, his mouth full.

  “So is that what you’re going to be? A regular customer?”

  Ryan chewed deliberately, tried to swallow the bite, and choked. He took a sip of coffee to help wash it down, coughed a few times, then looked at her. “Maybe,” he said. “You said you had some questions?”

  “I was just wondering who had an alibi for the night Stan was murdered.”

  “I did, for one,” he said. “So you can be sure I didn’t kill him.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you were out partying where a hundred people saw you?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “I was at the emergency vet clinic with my cat. She choked on a chicken bone that she got to before I had a chance to throw them out.”

  “Cat? You like cats?”

  “Bella was my wife’s cat.”

  “Your wife? I didn’t know you were married,” she said, glancing at his ring finger. It was bare.

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m widowed.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said simply.

  “Thank you. Now, as for your question. You want to know which suspects had an alibi for the night Stan was murdered. Why don’t you tell me whom you consider a suspect, and we’ll go from there?”

  “Stan’s wife. Sheila.”

  “She has an alibi,” he said. “She was the one who was out partying where a hundred people saw her.”

  “How about Rob Gingrich, Stan’s accountant?”

  “At some sort of meeting with a bunch of other accountants.”

  “What about Ben?”

  “Stan’s assistant? Studying for finals.”

  “He’s in school? What’s he studying?”

  “Small business ownership.”

  “Interesting. Was he studying by himself?”

  “Nope. Study group. Six other people.”

  “Gary Larkin?” she asked hopefully.

  “Chamber of Commerce board meeting.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I’m fresh out of suspects.”

  “Something will turn up,” he said. “Some clue, some new suspect. It usually does.”

  “Do you still suspect whomever it was you suspected before?”

  “Yes. But I can’t prove it. That’s the frustrating part. I know who did it. But I can’t prove it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Instinct. You get a feel for these things.”

  “But what if your feel is wrong?”

  “That’s always a possibility,” he said. “That’s why I try to keep an open mind until I have proof.”

  “But if you’re looking for proof against a certain person, wouldn’t that lead you to interpret certain clues or evidence a certain way? Confirmation bias, and all that?”

  “I’m looking for proof as to who the murderer was,” he said. “Not proof against a certain person.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not like that,” he said. “I don’t just try to hang crimes on a certain person I like for a suspect.”

  “I know you’re not,” she said. They held each other’s gaze for a moment until, apparently, he was satisfied, and his posture relaxed.

  “Hey, Shepherd, I thought I’d find you here,” a voice called out.

  Ryan was already looking at the man coming through the door. Tall, dressed in a polo shirt and khakis, and with a badge and gun on his belt, the man took a chair at their table, flipped it around, and sat down facing the back of the chair, which was toward the table. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “Heather, this is Bill Mitchell,” Ryan said reluctantly. “Bill, Heather. She owns this place.”

  “Can I get you a donut and some coffee?” she asked. “On the house.”

  “Sure,” Bill said. “I’ll take whatever kind of donut you recommend. Black coffee.”

  “Pay for the donut,” Ryan told him.

  “It’s okay; we’re officer-friendly,” she said.

  “See?” Bill said, gesturing toward her. “They’re officer-friendly.”

  Ryan shook his head as Heather assembled Bill’s order and brought it to him. “What is it with cops and black coffee?” she asked jokingly.

  “All we have time for,” Bill said. He grabbed the donut and took a bite. “Mmm, this is delicious,” he said with his mouth full. “You weren’t kidding, Shepherd.”

  “Did you need me for something?” Ryan asked, both eyebrows rising this time.

  “Nope. Just wanted to try out the donut shop you’ve been raving about.”

  “Raving? Really?” Heather asked.

  “Yeah. You should hear him,” Bill said.

  Heather glanced at Ryan, saw that he actually looked flustered. Flustered? Wow, really?


  “I have to get back to work,” Heather said, deciding to have pity on him. “You guys enjoy your donuts, okay?”

  “Will do,” Bill said. “Thank you. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  “It’s ‘Heather,’” she said.