“I hope so,” Heather replied. They said their goodbyes and hung up, leaving Heather to contend with Dave’s whining at the study door.
She opened it for him, and he trotted off to the bedroom, tail bobbing in the air.
Heather didn’t follow him. Instead, she slipped her phone onto the desk and took a seat in front of her laptop. Honey’s pleas, her desperation, circled her mind. She’d wanted Heather’s help, and that was something Heather would provide, even if Honey had already passed on.
“All right, Honey, let’s see what your Facebook profile says,” Heather murmured. She opened Facebook, doing her best to ignore the cute cat pictures which popped up on her feed, then typed in Honey Trickle into the search bar.
She found the dancer, immediately, and opened her profile. She scrolled down, past a list of condolences from people who’d heard about Honey’s death, and further back.
Honey’s privacy settings weren’t great. Heather slowed and expanded the comments on a post.
Honey had updated just a week before with:
You can’t trust anyone in this world. No one. You just give and give, and people, like, take all you have.
The post had gotten twenty like and one of those angry red faces, which had come from a Hunter Trickle. Honey’s brother.
Heather read the comments below the post, her eyes widening.
Whatever you say, sis. You’re such an idiot posting this on Facebook. BLOCK ME.
Heather pushed her back against the wooden rungs of her chair, blinking at the reply. So, Honey and her brother hadn’t been on great terms.
“Interesting,” Heather whispered. “Very interesting.”
But was it enough of a lead to follow?
The slam of car doors snapped Heather out of her reverie. Sounded like the investigation downstairs had finally packed up.
Heather stifled a yawn. Hunter Trickle would have to wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 4
“Oh my gosh, it’s like heaven has set up camp on my tongue,” Amy said, between appreciative groans and donut munching. “What did you put in these?”
“Magic,” Heather replied, twiddling her fingers.
A customer stepped around Amy and stopped in front of the counter. He wore a business suit and had a thin, leather briefcase tucked under his armpit. “Hey, I’ve seen these before,” he said, wallet in hand.
“Yeah? Did you get some yesterday?” Amy asked, between mouthfuls.
The guy stared at her for a second, blinking at her messy eating habits. Amy’s cheeks went bright red, and she turned away, lifting a hand to shield her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbled, around the donut.
“No, I got them from that other store. Delightful Donuts? Yeah, that guy has these as well.” The man opened his wallet and took out a couple of bills. “I decided to try your store. See if yours were any better than his. Can I get a dozen?”
“Sure,” Heather said, glancing at Amy.
Her bestie pursed her lips but didn’t say a word.
So, Geoff Lawless though he could out-donut her, did he? Maybe he could, in his wildest dreams.
Heather got the businessman’s order together, handed it over and accepted the cash. She rang it all up, gave him his change, and then watched him stroll out of the store, a leisurely pace.
“Can you believe that?” She asked. “Geoff’s determined to compete.”
“He couldn’t have just opened a normal bakery. He had to do the donut thing,” Amy said, then sighed. “Speaking of donuts.” She pointed to a Chocolate Revolution Donut and grinned.
Heather chuckled and brought one out for her, and Amy paid, as she insisted on doing every day.
“So, Mrs. Investigator Extraordinaire, what can you tell me about the case?” Amy asked, circling the counter, then perching on one of the stools which Heather had placed for her assistants to use during long shifts.
“I haven’t thought about it that much,” Heather replied, feigning innocence she couldn’t pull off.
“Oh please, you look like Dave with a donut in his mouth. An investigator, you may be, an actress, you are not.”
Heather blew a raspberry at her bestie. “I tried.”
“What are your theories?”
“Well,” Heather said, stepping back from the counter during the lull of customers, “Honey was terrified during the phone call. She was convinced that some unknown guy was after her.”
“Then the killer is male. That’s a lead, isn’t it?” Amy asked, swiping cream and chocolate shavings off the top of her donut, then depositing it into her mouth.
“Honey believed the person that was after her was male. But what if the killer wasn’t? I don’t know. That seems so obvious.” Heather pulled up a chair and sat down beside her friend. “Or maybe I’m overthinking it. I don’t know.”
“Did you find anything else?”
“Well, I did check out Honey’s Facebook profile,” Heather said.
“You stalker, you,” Amy hissed but winked to show it was a joke.
“Whatever, it’s all part of bringing Honey’s killer to justice. I don’t want to think that she asked for my help, and I couldn’t provide it.” Heather brushed invisible specks of dirt from her apron. “When someone needs my help, I follow through.”
“What did you find?”
“She posted something a week ago, something along the lines of not trusting people and her brother left a comment underneath. An angry one. He told her to block him,” Heather replied.
“Wow. That’s a big deal in the social media world. Blocking is like the real life version of…”
“Don’t say it,” Heather said, raising a finger and waggling it under Amy’s nose. “We can’t jump to any conclusions. I have to handle this delicately.”
“Delicate. Hmmm, Heather, you’re an amazing baker and investigator, but delicacy and subtlety, those aren’t’ your things.” Amy bit off some donuty goodness and chawed.
“I can always trust you for your honest opinion,” Heather replied, placing emphasis on the honest. “And by honest, I mean completely lacking in tact.”
“Whaddaya want from me? I’m just trying to be a good friend. And sidekick.”
“Whatever you say, Robin.” The corners of Heather’s lips twitched upwards. “I want to interview Hunter, regardless of what’s happened. Maybe he’ll know something. Honey could’ve got into trouble lately.”
“Or maybe –”
“Ames,” Heather replied, slipping into her warning tone. She figured if she’d had kids, it probably would’ve become her ‘get your hands out of the donut jar’ tone.
“You know, I’ve seen him hanging around that Geoff Lawless’ store. He gets his donuts there. Although, I’ve never technically seen him with a box,” Amy said, finishing off her choc donut, then licking cream and chocolate ganache off her fingers.
“And what were you doing around his store?”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Oh please, you know I’m addicted to your donuts. I was doing some corporate espionage. Spying. Checking out the competition.”
“Hunter was there?”
“Yeah, he’s there every day. He goes at lunch time, though I haven’t seen him eat anything. Just a coffee.”
“Right,” Heather said and checked her watch. “Looks like I’ve got a place to be.”
Amy clapped her hands together once, face lighting up. “I’m coming with you.”
Chapter 5
“Delightful Donuts,” Amy said, and scratched her chin dimple. “I’ll never get over that.”
“That makes two of us,” Heather replied.
“He couldn’t just come up with something original? Do you think he did it on purpose?” Amy asked.
Heather laughed, softly. “I think the young’uns call it ‘throwing shade.’ He’s just latching onto the success of my store to catapult himself up a couple of rungs. It’s a pity. I feel like we might’ve collaborated on some stuff.”
Amy grasped Heather’s arm and p
ointed to a man with shoulder length blonde hair in a polar neck shirt. “There he is. That’s Hunter Trickle.”
“I can always rely on you for the gossip,” Heather said, then examined her new target.
He sat outside the store, perched on the windowsill, clutching a coffee in one hand and a smartphone in the other. His lips moved as he read, and he had dark circles under his eyes.
“Too little sleep?”
“Or too many drugs,” Amy whispered.
Heather nudged her and shot her distilled disapproval in an expression. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s a rumor that’s been going around Hillside. They say that he’s into the bad stuff.”
“Do I even want to know?” Heather asked, then touched a hand to her jaw. She hated gossip at the best of times, a strange thing to hate when she was an investigator, but when it came to drugs and serious affairs, it gave her the creeps to talk about it.
“You don’t,” Amy replied. “Are we just going to stand here? Or are we going to talk to him? It’s already July, you know, Christmas is right around the corner.”
Heather nudged her again, then dragged her towards the long-haired, polar neck dude.
“Who wears long sleeves in this heat?” Heather asked.
“This guy, apparently,” Amy replied.
Heather linked her arm through Amy’s and stopped in front of Hunter Trickle.
He frowned at the shade across his screen, took a sip of his coffee, carried on reading.
“Ahem.” Heather coughed into her hand, politely.
“Hey!” Amy said, practicing those tact skills again – the grace of an elephant in a tutu, tiptoeing through the daisies.
Hunter snapped his gaze from his screen and looked at them. “Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.”
“Wow,” Amy said.
“The last guy who called me fat nearly got a Taser to the forehead. I left said Taser at home, but if you wait I can go get it, and you can join the club.” Heather wasn’t prepared to take insults, suspect or not.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Hunter replied, flashing a yellow-toothed grin. “I just meant that you two look a lot alike. Different but the same.”
“Smooth,” Amy said.
Heather drew in a breath, then stuck out a hand to shake with Hunter.
The blonde fella tucked his cell into his pocket, juggled his phone to his other hand, then grasped her hand and shook it. His palm was clammy. His grip was weak and floppy as a fish.
Heather forced herself not to shudder and snap her arm to her side. “Heather Shepherd,” she said, practicing confidence in her tone and the set of her shoulders. She might be nervous and stressed out, but she could fake it until she made it with the best of them. “And this is my friend, Amy.”
Amy didn’t do the whole handshake thing. She checked her nails instead, then craned her neck and peered through the windows of the donut store.
“I’m Hunter Trickle. But I figure you know that already, am I right?” He slurped coffee from the lid of his cup.
“Why would you say that?”
“Heather Shepherd?” Hunter said, and took another sip.
She shrugged. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“Oh come on, everyone in Hillside knows who you are. You’re like a miniature undercover cop or something.”
“I’m not a cop,” Heather replied. “Not even close.”
Amy tore her gaze from the lurid pink sign plastered against the brick wall above. “Ten points for using the word ‘miniature’ though.”
“Yeah, but you’re the murder lady,” he said.
“Ooh, minus ten points for that.” Amy shook her head and continued her examination of the store. She grimaced at the trashy sign and the dust on the window panes.
“I ask questions when people get hurt,” Heather said. “That’s the best label for it. I’ll be honest with you, Hunter, your sister was a friend of mine.”
He arched an eyebrow, his gaze traveling from her flat pumps to the pretty, pink and modestly cut silk blouse. “You don’t look like the kind of person my sister was friends with.”
“We weren’t besties or anything,” Heather said.
“That position is taken,” Amy put in.
“But I did help her out of a tight spot once, and she helped me on a jaunt, I guess you could call it. She phoned me before, ugh, before it happened.”
Hunter’s cheeks slackened and his gaze unfocused. “I never thought it would come to this,” he said, softly. “Honey was, you know, you met her. She was full of life. She was too full of life.”
Amy stiffened, Heather nudged her, and she relaxed again.
“What do you mean?” Heather asked.
Hunter continued staring at a parked car in the distance. “She interfered in places she shouldn’t have. I feel like this is my fault. What happened to her was my fault on some level.”
“Why?”
Finally, he met Heather’s gaze. “It doesn’t matter why. Honey should’ve minded her own business and stayed safe.” He rose from his perch on the window sill, not bothering to brush off his torn skinny jeans. “You might not be a cop, Heather Shepherd, but I’m still not going to talk to you. I’ll tell you the same thing I told everyone else. Honey Trickle was my sister. She was crazy, she got into trouble, but she was my sister and I loved her. Nothing you or anyone else can say or do will change that.” He pushed past her and strode off down the road, his sneakers slapping against the sidewalk.
“That went well,” Heather murmured.
“Yeah, totally,” Amy replied.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Ames, I was being sarcastic. Learn to read the room.” Heather directed her friend away from the front of Geoff’s donut shop, which was pretty empty and dark.
They strode down the sidewalk together, still arm in arm. They could be sixty, and they’d walk arm in arm, like this. They’d done it since high school, so why stop now?
“That’s my leads gone,” Heather said.
“You still have one lead,” Amy replied, then wiggled her eyebrows up and down. “We know what the murder weapon was.”
“And if we know what the murder weapon was, we know where the murderer bought it. Amy, you’re a genius!” Heather hip-bumped her best friend.
“I’ll never get tired of hearing that. To Bob’s Ballistics we go,” Amy said.
Heather hummed Ships by Big Country all the way there.
Chapter 6
“Where were you when my ship went down,” Amy sang, closing her eyes as they walked.
“Hey, cut it out, we’re almost there,” Heather said and elbowed her bestie in the ribs.
“I’m sorry, but if you’re going to hum something, don’t expect me not to sing along to it. The temptation is just too great.” Amy grinned at her, a beautiful smile which showed her inner light.
“Next time I’ll hum Christina Aguilera,” Heather said.
“And I’ll destroy the song. Because you are beautiful.” Amy crooned the last part, which earned her another jab to the ribs.
“Reel it in,” Heather said.
They stopped in front of Bob’s Ballistics and stared up at the sign which hung above the door, swaying lightly in the breeze. It was a rifle with a winking face at the end of the barrel.
“I’m suddenly very uncomfortable,” Heather said.
“Don’t be. Ballistic Bob is a champ,” Amy replied, then caught Heather’s expression. “It’s just a nickname, relax. He’s not crazy or anything. He’s just enthusiastic about his guns. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You know who else is enthusiastic about guns?” Heather asked.
“Let’s not go down that road. Besides, didn’t you get your Taser from here?”
“No, Ryan got it from me. I figured he got it from Wal-Mart or something,” Heather replied. “It seems like an innocent thing. Non-lethal weapon and all that.”
“You do realize they sell guns at Wal-Mart, right?” Amy replied,
dragging Heather toward the door. “And that there isn’t a Wal-Mart in Hillside?”
“I’m so not comfortable with violence. It’s the whole reason I want to solve this case in the first place.” Heather went along with Amy, still eying that swinging, winking gun sign.
Amy placed her palm on the steel handle and opened it. They walked in a few steps and met with a metal, mesh cage.
“Just a sec, y’all,” a man called, from the other end of the room. “Just got a bit of a meetin’ going on here.”
“No problem, Bally Bob,” Amy yelled back.
“Amesters? Is that you?”
“Amesters?” Heather muttered, arching an eyebrow.
“I told you he was enthusiastic,” she replied. “Now, settle down. This is going to be interesting. If anyone knows who bought the gun that killed Honey, it’ll be Ballistic.”
“If you say so.”
The cage door buzzed, and they entered the store together. Heather glanced around at the guns lined along the wall, some of them locked behind cages, with heavy padlocks, others underneath glass counters. Boxes of shells, scopes, and other unidentifiable doohickeys – it was as if Heather had stepped into another world.
Nothing in here was remotely donut shaped.
Amy was her anchor to her real world. They traipsed to the far counter; then both pulled up short.
Ryan Shepherd turned to them. He winked at his wife and bobbed his chin up towards Amy. “You ladies here to do some shopping?”
“You could say that,” Heather replied.
“Don’t let me hold you up,” Ryan said. Was this a game? Usually, Ryan kissed Heather the minute he saw her, even if it was just a peck on the forehead or something.
“I dunno what to tell you, officer,” Ballistic Bob said, straightening from behind the counter. He placed a box of shells on it, slide them towards her husband, then shrugged. “The only fella who came in here to get a gun was a, I don’t know how to put it nicely, but he didn’t look like the kinda guy who would ever go hunting if you catch my drift.”
Heather and Amy feigned intrigue in a few items on the shelves, their heads tilted toward Ryan’s conversation with the gun store owner.
Candied Maple Bacon Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 13 (Donut Hole Mystery) Page 2
