“Oh, oh, flashbacks,” Amy said, and gripped the bridge of her nose. “And now I have a migraine.”
“It was tough, sure, but it was doable. I made do. That’s the point. Anyway, my concern is the case itself, not the rude agent.”
“What about the case?” Amy asked.
“Well, the burn marks on two individuals in the house for starters.” Heather grabbed one of the blankets and threw it around her shoulders. “That’s interesting, to say the least.”
“Both of them had excuses, though.”
“Sure, but they weren’t great excuses. A curling iron and a waffle iron.” Heather tapped her bottom lip. “And I got a strange feeling from both of them. Like they’re hiding something. Which is understandable coming from Jennifer, since she’s been up to no good on the internet.”
“Boy, that dark web stuff gives me the shivers,” Amy said. “I went and researched it after you told me about it.”
“Ames!”
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, I don’t mean I went onto the thing. I wouldn’t even know how,” Amy replied, and fanned her cheeks, theatrically. “I mean, I just Googled the words. It’s a nasty place.”
“It is,” Heather agreed. “But desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“They live in a mansion,” Amy replied. “Just how desperate could the times have been?” She walked to the other sofa, her old spot from ages past, and ruffled the soft fur between Dave’s ears.
“Ryan said they were struggling. Apparently, Mr. Hardbody had some trouble at work. He owned some kind of financing business. Kind of like Kate Laverne’s deal, but on a larger scale.”
“Goodness, I didn’t even know it existed,” Amy said.
“Me neither.” Heather shrugged the blanket upward and snuggled her ears in it. A pity they didn’t have a fireplace, like Eva. “But maybe Jennifer’s sheltered life had driven her to the edge.”
“What do you mean?”
“Imagine someone told you, you could never have another Donut Delights donut again,” Heather said. “What would you do?”
“Not launder money on the internet,” Amy replied, but stuck out her tongue a second later. “Honestly, I’d do anything it took to make sure I could have donuts. Within the law, of course.”
“Good answer. But some people don’t have your moral integrity. Within the law is a relative term, to them,” Heather said.
Lilly’s muffled footsteps thumped toward the living room. She whistled a tune down the hall, some Christmas caper or the other, then appeared under the white arch which led into their makeshift movie theater. “Okay, so what are we watching first?”
“Not Jurassic Park, thank heavens,” Amy replied. “They haven’t made a Christmas special, yet.”
“Can you imagine if they did?” Lilly’s gaze lit up like the Christmas tree beside her.
“A Charlie Brown Christmas will be first,” Heather said and pointed to the stack of DVDs nearby. “Be a sweetheart and put it on for us?”
Lilly hurried to do exactly that, and the red Santa Claus on her Christmas PJs danced from the movement.
Heather grinned and settled back. How could she worry at a time like this? She had a case to solve, sure, but everything else was perfect. And Christmas waved around the corner, wrapped in bows and tinsel, and the joy of time spent with family.
Chapter 7
“How long until we’re prohibited from checking out the crime scene?” Heather asked, and placed her fists on her hips. Her knuckles brushed against the fabric of her jeans. “Shouldn’t Agent Orchard be here, hovering around?”
“Uh oh,” Ryan said. “He really rubbed you up the wrong way.”
“He was rude,” Heather replied. She glazed over the locked door in the corner, the untouched boxes of decorations and the still broken window pane. There wasn’t anything new to see here.
An itch chased her thoughts around her mind. “Is anyone home?” She asked.
Ryan glanced up from the floor, where he sat on his haunches. He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
Heather tapped the side of her nose. “Just wondering.”
“Heather Shepherd, I know you better than I know myself, by now. You’re up to something.”
“I think we should, uh, interview some of the suspects while we’re here,” Heather said and took a step backward onto the first cement stair. The soles of her boots scraped on the concrete. “It makes sense, don’t you think?”
“You’re looking for trouble, aren’t you?” Ryan asked. “You know if that agent catches wind of –”
“He won’t,” she replied. “Look, I’m just going to take a walk through the house, to the front door, and if I happen to run into one of the suspects, so be it.” Apparently, Orchard had been explicit at the station.
Heather Shepherd, the second rate private investigator, wasn’t to interview the suspects while he was around. Apparently, he had the authority to make the demand because she wasn’t technically an officer.
And the actual detectives had to comply with his wishes. Ha, more like demands.
“Be careful,” Ryan said and returned to his study of the clean floor. He knew better than to try to stop her, by now.
Heather hurried through the single door and shut it behind her. The pine clicked against the frame, a hollow knock of declaration. “Here comes Heather Shepherd. Gird your secrets.”
She chuckled at herself. She’d become a little vain after all the cases.
Heather set off down the carpeted hall. She took a right and passed shut doors, their silver handles glinting by the lights overhead. The airy mansion had windows everywhere, in every room, except for the halls.
Those were lit by wall sconces and miniature chandeliers. Heather glanced at the ceiling and blinked. A surveillance camera tracked her movements from the far corner.
“Huh,” she said and rubbed her palms together.
The report from the surveillance had corroborated Kenny’s story. About a half an hour before the death of their father, the brothers had met up in one of the rooms.
Junior’s room, which happened to be right across the hall from Heather.
Intrigue tugged at her, and she walked to that door, now. She pressed her palm to the wood and hinges creaked. The door swung inward, slowly, as if the air had conspired to block its path.
Heather stepped inside and took a breath.
“Wow,” she whispered.
That pretty much summed it up.
Posters glared down at her from Junior’s walls. Rock bands, and creative drawings of monsters in shades of red, black and brown. The short, walnut desk at the end of the bedroom sat beneath a window, shrouded by black curtains.
Heather strode toward it, through the murk, and clicked on the desk lamp. Harsh, white light flooded the space, and chased shadows from the corners of the room.
A journal sat front and center, its black leather scarred – but not by old-age. It looked as if the owner had taken a pen or a knife and scratched the cover, on purpose.
“What a silly thing to do to a book,” Heather whispered, and picked it up. Old habits died hard, and rifling through other folks’ thoughts was one Heather probably wouldn’t lose soon in her line of work.
She ran her fingers across the worn cover, then opened to a center page.
Neat, cursive writing scrawled across the unlined page.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. He’s ruined my life. He won’t let me do what I want to do because he thinks I’m a loser. My art is everything, and my father will never understand what it means to suffer for that cause.
Heather blinked at the words. She scrambled her cell out of her pocket, then snapped an image of the page. She wouldn’t be able to use the evidence for anything, but it’d be a good addition to her file on the mysterious Mr. Junior Hardbody.
Heather shut the diary and put it back in its spot.
“What are you doing?” A voice asked, behind her. “Get away from there.” A black and white blu
r rushed past her and snatched up the journal.
A young man, with pitch black hair, and darker makeup beneath his eyes. It made him look like a pale raccoon. He glared at Heather, heat in his eyes. “Who are you?”
“Junior Hardbody?” Heather asked. “I was just looking for you. I didn’t mean to invade the sanctity of your – uh, space.”
He worked his jaw and tightened the grip on his journal. His black shirt clung to his lean frame. “Whatever. You’re snooping.”
Heather ignored the accusation. She glanced past him and studied the drawing on the wall.
The monster raised its arms above its too small head. The image smacked of horror, but the drawing was pretty good. Tasteful in the strangest way. “Did you draw these?” Heather asked.
Junior looked back at the picture. He shrugged.
“They’re really good. I mean, I’m not one for monsters, but the style is great.”
“Thanks,” Junior said, and his mood lightened a little. “Thanks, yeah, that one took a really long time to draw. I had a dream about that guy.”
“The monster?”
“He’s a man,” Junior replied. “Though, I guess there isn’t much difference between the two.”
“In some cases,” Heather agreed. She’d seen her fair share of murderers brought to justice. “Junior, would you mind if I spoke to you? Asked you a few questions?”
He shrugged pale, bony shoulders beneath his shirt. “I guess,” he said.
“I’m one of the investigators,” she said.
“Oh,” he replied, and his dark brown eyes flicked downward. “My dad.”
“That’s right.” Heather cleared her throat. “Junior, I know this is a hard time for you and your family. I want to do whatever I can to bring your father’s murderer to justice. Any information you can provide would be most welcome.”
“I get it, yeah,” Junior said and spared her a nod. A silver ring bit through the flesh above his left nostril. That had to hurt.
“Where were you at the time of your father’s murder?” Heather asked.
“I was here, in my room. Didn’t you guys check the surveillance, or whatever?” Junior waved his free hand toward the door. “Kenny came and chilled with me for a while.”
“I see,” Heather said. Interesting he’d mention the surveillance cameras, at all. “And how would you describe your relationship with your father?”
Junior tossed back his silky black fringe, and light flashed off the silver rings on his fingers. “Strained. Father thought I was a waste of space. And he thought my art was trash.”
“And that made you feel –”
“Furious. Misunderstood. The usual stuff. But I did what he wanted anyway. I’m at college studying to take over the business,” Junior said, and a beleaguered sigh escaped his pale lips. “And now he’s gone. And it makes me even angrier.”
“Why?”
“Because this family needed him. Mom needed him, and Kenny was like, his best friend. The apple of his eyes or whatever. They’re lost without him,” Junior replied. He still hadn’t released his journal.
“But you’re not.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not. I never needed him or his approval. Or his money. Now he’s gone, I – I guess I’ll have to do what he wanted anyway,” the college kid said, and he forced a wet chuckle. “I’m older than Kenny. There will be a meeting with father’s lawyers.”
Heather made mental notes since she’d left her tablet in the cruiser.
Junior shifted his weight and glanced toward his desk. “Do you mind? I kind of have some stuff to do.”
“Sure,” Heather said, and gave him an easy smile. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Hardbody.”
The lines of Junior’s face hardened at that name. “Call me, Junior, please.”
Chapter 8
Heather shifted in the wrought-iron chair beside one of her tables in Donut Delights.
Maricela and Ken stood behind the counter, trading jokes and serving customers. Christmas music jingled between the tables and lifted the mood. Not that anyone in Donut Delights needed lifting, apart from Heather, herself.
“Are you all right, love?” Ryan asked, and took a huge bite of his Christmas Donut. “Man, these are good. Another genius invention.”
“Lilly helped me plan these,” Heather replied. She drummed her heels on the golden boards. “And I’m fine. My mind’s just on the case and the appearance of this mysterious Agent Orchard.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s out of our way and we’ll stay out of his. No big deal,” Ryan said. He grabbed a napkin from the decorative holder, then dabbed at his lips.
“I’d just like more information than we already have,” Heather said.
“Your wish is my command,” Ryan replied. “I just so happen to have more information. Not that it’s going to make much difference. The information is, uh, sparse.”
“Shoot,” Heather said, and she finally grubbed her cappuccino – lovingly prepared by Amy before she’d disappeared through the kitchen doors to continue with the Christmas Donut batter.
“We got the results back from the lab. No fingerprints on anything. Not the lights, not the boxes. Nothing that will link us to anyone specific,” Ryan said. “I think the texture of the light is all wrong for the process. I can’t be certain, though.”
“Anything else?” Heather asked. She sipped the foam from the top of her drink and swirled it around her mouth.
“We did get a DNA sample from the victim’s shirt. Saliva,” he said. “The profile wasn’t distinct, but apparently, it’s a mixed sample. Two males.”
Heather arched her eyebrows. “One could be the victim’s obviously,” she said.
“That’s correct. The victim and our murderer must’ve exchanged a few harsh words down in the basement,” Ryan replied.
Heather drank some coffee, then put down her cup on its saucer with a gentle clink. “So, that means a few of our suspects are lying. All of them, actually. Only one scream was reported by Kenny, and that was when the wife discovered the body.”
“But the DNA sample rules her out,” Ryan said. “That’s if the sample is actually from the time of the murder. He might’ve argued with someone before it occurred and the trace material we found could’ve come from there.”
“Good point,” Heather said, and scowled. She’d never been one for scowling, but the situation warranted it. “Do we know anything else?”
“One last thing,” Ryan replied, and raised his index finger. A red sprinkle dropped off the end. He collected it and popped it between his lips.
“What is it?”
“I forwarded you an email this morning. Did you get it?” He asked.
“No, I haven’t checked my emails,” Heather replied. “I hope the question’s related to the one I just asked.”
Ryan licked glaze off the corner of his lip. “I emailed you a copy of the letter which was sent to Victor Hardbody, by one Mr. Ramsey Johnson of Johnson and Company.”
“Who’s that?” Heather asked, more to herself than to her husband. “The name sounds so familiar.”
“He’s some hotshot from Houston, but he arrived in Hillside a few days ago,” Ryan said. “Guess which day.”
“The same day Victor died?”
“Rumor has it,” Ryan said. “Though, I haven’t been able to corroborate that fact just yet.”
“I guess, now’s our chance,” Heather replied. “Do we know anything else about Johnson?”
“Only that he’s rich as can be and he’s a lawyer. The note was pretty explicit about that.”
“What else did it say?” Heather asked, and drank some more of her coffee. The strong, creamy liquid filtered down the back of her throat and swept through her veins.
“That Hardbody owed him a lot of money and he’d be in town to discuss the lack of payment on a certain date.”
“Which date?”
“The day after the murder,” Ryan said. “Which is interesting since rumors s
ay he arrived the day before. I don’t know. I need to verify all this. Don’t get your hopes up.” He shifted his plate aside and checked his watch. “Hon, I suppose I’d better get on that.”
“Wait,” Heather said, and grasped his arm. “Wait, love. Let me speak to him. You’re getting the afternoon off, right?”
“That’s right,” Ryan said, with a weary sigh. “Even cops need a time out now and again.”
“Well, you pick up Lils from school and I’ll head over to uh – where is this guy?”
“Stay at the Hillside by the Wayside Motel,” Ryan replied. “Room number 13. Ominous, right?”
“You’d swear it was Halloween all over again.” Heather brushed crumbs off the tabletop. “Ames and I will go speak to him. You take your much needed time out.”
“Strange,” Ryan replied. “Whenever I tell you to take a timeout, you never listen.”
“That’s because I don’t need one.” Heather winked at him.
His wrinkled brow didn’t smooth out. “Seriously, though. I want you to take some holiday next week. Speak to your staff.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already organized the shifts. Angelica, Emily and Jung are working next week, but taking Christmas week off.”
“So, you’ll take next week off, then?” Ryan asked.
“We’ll see,” Heather replied.
“You’d better. I’m not interested in excuses.” He drew his hand through the air to cut said excuses short. “I want you to take a couple rest days. From everything.”
Heather nodded once, the most reluctant nod ever achieved, and Ryan cracked a smile, at last.
“Good,” he said and shifted his chair back along the golden boards. “Then I’ll be off to go get our daughter.” He swept down and kissed her on the temple. The soft scrape of his stubble and the scent of his cologne brought her comfort when nothing else could.
Then he straightened, brushed off his smart, work shirt, and hurried out of the door.
“Ramsey Johnson,” Heather said, and tapped her finger on the side of her mug. “Interesting.”
Christmas Donut Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 31 Page 3
