Neapolitan Delight Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 33

by Susan Gillard

  “What is it?” Heather asked.

  “She’s finally turning into an Oracle,” Amy replied. “Am I going to marry a rich man, Eva?”

  “Oh you and your ways,” Eva said, and tapped Amy on the forearm. “Wait a moment.” She paged through the newspaper at a furious speed, her plum hairdo wobbling atop her head.

  Heather stole a bite of her donut and sweet strawberry cream, light as air, swished across the top of her mouth. Her assistants had done a good job replicating this morning’s first batch.

  “Here,” Eva said and smoothed her palms over the newspaper. She fingered an advert in the bottom right hand corner of the page. “Come down to Owen’s Tea Shop for the best beverage of your life. Your hosts Mona and Col are happy to welcome and seat you. Tea you soon!”

  “Tea you soon?” Amy shuddered. “Cringefest.”

  “Yeah, almost as cringy as the phrase cringe fest,” Heather said. “It says, Mona?”

  “Right here, dear,” Eva replied.

  Heather bit her lip. Owen’s Tea Shop had to be one of the new developments in Hillside because it didn’t instantly ring a bell. She made a point of keeping track of every type of restaurant, bakery and concession stand in the city. It was just good business.

  “How many Mona’s can there be in Hillside?” Amy asked.

  “May I see that, Eva?” Heather asked.

  “Of course, dear.” Eva flipped the page over and folded it so that the advert stayed on top. She handed it across the table to Heather. “I’d like it back when you’re finished, though.”

  Heather took the paper and examined the ad through slit-narrow eyes. Thoughts chased across her mind, questions about Mona’s relationship with Pete. Did the woman even know he’d died?

  She had to. Hillside might have expanded, but it certainly hadn’t freed itself from the small town gossip epidemic which plagued it, even after Sharon Janis’ death.

  Heather reached into her tote and grabbed the smooth cold end of her tablet. She brought it out and placed it on the table, beside her half-full coffee cup.

  “I’m coming with you,” Amy said.

  Heather clicked the button on the side of her tablet and brought the screen to life. She tapped through to her Evernote App. A fresh blank note opened. “I wouldn’t dream of going without you, Miss Givens.” Heather typed the address for the Own Tea Shop on her touchscreen.

  “Glad to be of service,” Eva said, and took a bite of her own Neapolitan donut. “Consider this a smidgen of payback for all the delicious donuts you send my way. By the way, dear, do you have the delivery for Hillside Manor prepared?”

  “I certainly do,” Heather said. “You can collect it from Angelica at the counter.”

  “Wonderful. I think I’ll pay that lovely friend of your grandmother’s a visit.”

  “Leila?” Pleasure swirled through Heather’s tummy. Leila would love the company. “She’ll be happy to see you.”

  Eva grinned, and her inner beauty shone from the inside out. “Not as happy as I’ll be to make another friend.”

  Heather copied the address on her screen, then opened Google Maps and dropped it into the search bar. The location popped up with a red pin, immediately. She swiveled the screen between her palms and pointed it, Amy. “Looks like we’re off on another adventure, Ames,” she said.

  Her bestie grabbed the Hillside Reporter and gave it back to Eva. “Let’s hope it’s better than the last one.”

  Chapter 7

  The inside of the Owen Tea Shop smelled exactly as Heather had expected. Dry, green and spicy. The aroma of tea enveloped them, and the cool green light which filtered through the colored glass window at the front of the store nudged Heather forward a step, toward the clear Plexiglas counter.

  A variety of boxed teas, along with open brown sacks brimming with dried leaves, sat beneath the counter. A silver bell rested on top of it.

  “Tea is so not my thing,” Amy said.

  “I might give it a try. I heard green tea is great for you,” Heather replied.

  Motion rattled the strings of beads which hung from the lintel of the empty doorframe behind the counter, and a smiling man emerged. “Green tea is awesome,” he said, and his accent threw Heather right back to New York. “Full of antioxidants. We’ve got a fridge full of the iced version if you’d like. Homemade.”

  The man gestured to the fridge to his right, and the rows of bottles lined up inside it, jostling for attention.

  “Heather Shepherd,” she said and extended a hand above the counter.

  “Col Owen,” he replied, and shook it once. Col had that effortlessly handsome vibe down. Sandy blonde hair, broad shoulders and a face too young for wrinkles, in his early thirties.

  He suited a surfboard better than the tea shop.

  “You own this store?” Amy asked, and didn’t bother containing her disbelief.

  “Hah, sometimes I think it owns me,” Col replied, and one side of his mouth lifted in an Indiana Jones smile. “But yeah, I’m the owner of the Owen Tea Shop. Been a dream of mine to get away from the city, downscale. Do something I care about.”

  “I see,” Heather said. Her usual response to personal statements, even though she could totally relate to this one.

  She’d done the same after her first marriage. And thus, Donut Delights existed down the street, in all its glory. The glory which had shaped her as a person.

  “Mr. Owen, do you know a woman by the name of Mona Petrov?” Heather asked.

  “Do I know her?” Col asked. “Why, who’s asking?”

  “She is,” Amy said, and jerked her thumb toward her best friend. “Hea-ther She-pherd.” She dragged out the syllables.

  “I’ve come to talk to Mona about an ongoing investigation with the Hillside Police Department. Is she here?” Heather asked.

  “You don’t look like an officer,” Col replied. He glanced toward another doorway, also decorated by an array of clay beads.

  Heather peered through it at a selection of rickety tables and chairs within.

  “That’s because I’m not,” Heather said. “I’m a consultant. I’ve worked closely with them on several cases.”

  Col Owen’s narrowed gaze tracked from the lapels of her neat blouse down to the tips of her sensible boots. He nodded once, then inhaled and leaned back a bit. “Mona,” he yelled. “Some people here to talk to ya.”

  “Yes, darling,” a woman sang back, her voice as light as a summer breeze.

  Darling? Heather and Ames shared a quick glance.

  The beads rattled, and Mona Petrov hurried into the room, her dark hair tied back, but her almond-shaped eyes sharp as in the picture Ryan had plucked off Pete Boston’s hidden room’s wall.

  “What’s up?” She asked. A hint of an accent chased her words, but she spoke fluently.

  “Miss Petrov?” Heather stepped forward. “I’m Heather Shepherd. I’m working with the Hillside Police Department to solve the murder of Pete Boston. I understand you were acquainted with him.”

  Mona turned as white as a ghost. She trembled on the spot, and Col Owen rushed around the counter to her side. He looped his arm around her waist and held her upright.

  “Pete is dead?” She whispered, her bottom lip quivered.

  “Maybe you should leave. Come back later,” Col said.

  “No.” Mona pressed her palm to his loose khaki t-shirt. “No,” she said, again, and her voice strengthened. “I want to talk to them. How did it happen?”

  “Nobody listens to the news anymore,” Amy muttered, but only loud enough for Heather to hear.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, Miss Petrov. Pete was stabbed. He died in the Keleman Cinematic Theater, yesterday evening.”

  Mona covered her mouth and shut her eyes. Tears slipped from beneath her lids. “I can’t believe it. I saw him three days ago.”

  “You and Pete were close?”

  Mona opened her eyes. She dropped her hand again. “He was my husband,” she said.
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  Amy’s jaw drop. Heather reached over and pressed her index finger to it. Her bestie snapped her mouth shut.

  “Your husband,” Heather said.

  Col Owen grunted. “Her soon to be ex-husband. Or he would’ve been.”

  “Oh my gosh,” Mona said, and more tears sprung from her eyes. “This is terrible. The last words I said to him weren’t kind. Pete refused to sign the papers, even though my lawyer drew them up for him.”

  Heather only knew of one divorce lawyer in the city, and he’d been at the theater the night before.

  “He didn’t want the divorce?” Amy asked.

  “No,” Mona said. “He thought we could work it out, even though I told him I didn’t want to. He was detached through most of your married life. I couldn’t take the silence anymore. I wanted something real.”

  Again, Heather could relate.

  “I met Col, and I knew I had, to be honest with Pete about my feelings. He just couldn’t accept them. He left the house and disappeared.”

  “He disappeared?” That must’ve been around the time he moved into the strange room behind the theater’s stage.

  “About a month ago,” Mona said.

  “Tell them the other part,” Col said and gritted his teeth. “Tell them about the stalking.”

  “Col, relax. I’m getting there. Sorry, he’s just so protective of me.” Mona sighed and stroked her new beau’s cheek.

  Amy made an unsympathetic noise deep in her throat.

  “Pete stalked you,” Heather stated.

  “Every evening after I left work. He followed me home on foot. I don’t drive. I never learned how, and the suburbs are just around the corner, anyway.” Mona chewed her full bottom lip. “He never hurt me, Pete. He’d never dream of it. I think he just wanted to make sure I knew he was around. I never mentioned it at our meeting with the lawyer, either.”

  “May I ask, who is your lawyer, Miss Petrov?”

  Mona accepted a tissue from Col. She dabbed at the tip of her refined nose and then the corners of her eyes. “Herman Schulz,” she said.

  Chapter 8

  Heather and Amy stuck to the sidewalk opposite to the Keleman Cinematic Theater. Herman Schulz office was just around the corner from it, by a stroke of luck, and Heather wouldn’t go back to Donut Delights without a quick meeting with the mysterious German lawyer first.

  The building was as regal outside as it was on the inside, with a cupola at its pinnacle and gold lettering attached to a pearly white announcement board circling above the double doors.

  “Creepy,” Amy muttered.

  Heather rolled her eyes and led the way down the street. Schulz building towered on the corner ahead of them; its peak stretched toward the azure blue sky.

  They entered the revolving door, then took the elevator to Schulz’s floor.

  Amy huffed a sigh. “From teas and romance to a German and a room full of cigarette smoke. What lives we lead.”

  “You’re awfully bitter this week,” Heather said. “What’s bothering you?”

  The circular floor numbers lit up one by one above the steel double doors in the elevator.

  “Nothing. I’m nervous, I guess.”

  “Don’t worry,” Heather said and play-punched her bestie on the arm. “I’ll handle the lawyer. You just sit back and pass comments like you always do.”

  “That is what I’m best at,” Amy said. “But that’s not exactly what I meant. It’s not what I’m nervous –”

  The elevator tinged, and the steel doors slid back. Herman Schulz stood directly in front of them, grasping a brown file to his chest. His tufted gray eyebrows shot up his forehead.

  “Mrs. Shepherd,” he said. “Miss Givens. I hardly expect to see you in my building. What has happened now? Another movie star out the window?”

  “Not quite,” Heather said. “Do you have a moment to talk in your office, Mr. Schulz? It would be better to discuss this in private.”

  Herman Schulz looked at the folder in his hands, then back up at the woman. He tilted his head from one side to the other, waggled it back and forth a few times. At last, he huffed a sigh. “Very well, very well. Follow me,” he said.

  “As if we haven’t been here before,” Amy muttered.

  Herman led them to his door with its golden plaque which bore his name. He unlocked it and let them into the smoke-clogged room.

  Amy crossed to the windows immediately. She threw them open and took in a big gulp of fresh air. “I’ll be over here until further notice,” she said.

  Herman shut the door behind them. “Whatever suits you, miss.” He hurried over to his high-backed leather chair, and Heather couldn’t help but stare.

  Such a short man with so much speed.

  Herman clambered into his office chair, slapped down his dossier and met Heather’s gaze. “You have my ears,” he said. “And my brain too, if it may be of service.” The back of the chair dwarfed him, yet Mr. Schulz pulled off a regal vibe.

  That was until he reached for a pack of thin, white cigarettes.

  “You can see forever from up here,” Amy said. “I swear, I can make out the top of Donut Delights.”

  “Mr. Schulz,” Heather said. “It’s come to my attention that you’re handling Mona Petrov’s divorce from Pete Boston.”

  Herman exhaled through his nose. He tapped the underside of his cigarette against the surface of his walnut desk. “Ja. It is as I expected. The minute I hear of the murder, I knew you would come to see me.” He inserted the cigarette between his lips. “Such a pity what happened to the man, stubborn as he was.”

  “Stubborn?”

  “Ja. Starrköpfig. Stubborn. He didn’t want to get the divorce in the first place, and no amount of Mona’s proposed meetings would change that,” Herman said and creaked forward in the leather chair. He lifted a lighter and flicked it open.

  Amy sniffed and shuffled around beside the window.

  A flame flickered from the lighter and the lawyer dragged on the end of his cig.

  “You met with them more than once?” Heather asked.

  “I met with them on two occasions,” Herman said and raised the two fingers which clasped his smoke. “Two was more than enough. Much more. Goodness, the man would not see sense. I told him the divorce would be amicable. I attested to Mona’s wish to end the thing peacefully, but he didn’t want it to happen.”

  “What did he say?”

  “On the last occasions,” Herman said. “There was a streit. A quarrel. The two of them screamed at each other. They lost their tempers completely, and I am not ashamed to say I asked them to leave.” He inclined his head and tipped off the ash from his cigarette into the steel tray on his desk. “Mona lingered, but this Pete couldn’t be happier to get out of my office.”

  An argument. Mona had mentioned they hadn’t ended their meeting on amicable terms, but she hadn’t gone so far as to call it a ‘quarrel.’

  “It is terrible to say, but I think Pete’s death was the only way poor Mona would’ve gotten out of the marriage. I do not foresee any natural force which could’ve convinced him to sign the document.”

  Heather’s sleuthin’ gene didn’t tingle, it positively kicked around in her body. Could Mona have committed the crime? Had she become desperate enough to kill her husband?

  Surely, she wouldn’t have done it at a cinema. Too many potential witnesses.

  “Hey,” Amy said. “There’s smoke.”

  “Och.” Herman stubbed out the remains of his cigarette. “There we are, Miss Givens. Are you happy now?”

  “No, no!” Amy hopped up and down on the spot beside the window. “There’s smoke! Smoke coming from down the road. I think the theater’s on fire.”

  Heather darted to the window. She leaned out and grasped the sill.

  Black smoke billowed from the cupola of the Keleman Cinematic Theater, and already, sirens howled in the distance.

  “Let’s go,” Heather said.

  Chapter 9

  Hea
ther and Amy stood behind the line, side by side, gazes of the orange-red flames which licked at the topmost window of the building. Firefighters scurried around from their truck to the building, aiming hoses and calling out orders.

  A flurry of red and white activity, in front of a crowd of silent onlookers.

  Something about fire drew people to it, and Heather couldn’t blame them.

  After all, she’d run down the street to witness it herself, though she had an ulterior motive.

  “It’s got to be arson,” she said, loud enough for Amy to hear.

  The commotion from the creaking building, the pops and cracks of the fire and the yelling men and women in red, buried their conversation.

  “Why?” Amy whispered.

  “To burn the evidence. Or the room. I don’t know, but this is too much of a coincidence, Ames. We need to find the owner. Look for a balding guy.”

  “Easy enough,” Amy said and scanned the crowd. “Done. I don’t see a bald man.”

  “Helpful as always.”

  A cop car whooped behind them, and both women jumped. A few others in the crowd flinched or let out a tiny squeal.

  Heather hurried toward the cruiser and hope unfurled in her chest.

  Ryan Shepherd parked behind the crowd of onlookers. He got out of the car, gaze trained on the flames which devoured the theater.

  “What have we here?” He asked.

  Heather circled to his side of the car. “I’m sure it’s arson,” she said. “I’m trying to find the owner to speak to him, but no luck yet.”

  “I think your luck’s just come in,” Ryan replied. He leaned both forearms on top of his car, beside the strip of blue and red lights, and pointed with both forefingers.

  Amy stood just in front of them, in the grips of none other than Edgar Keleman. The hair tufts on one side of his head had been burned clean off, and the other side’s smoked, lightly.

  “How do you know my name?” He roared.

  “Mr. Keleman,” Heather said, loudly.

  The theater owner let go of Ames, immediately. He turned his head in increments until he laid eyes on the pair of them beside the cop car.