Cinnamon Crunch Murder

by Gillard, Susan

  “What happened?” He asked, grabbing her by the shoulders, and searching her gaze. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. We just got a bit of a fright.”

  Ryan sighed, then squared his shoulders, transforming into Detective Shepherd in a blink of an eye. “Where?”

  “Through there. The living room. And whoever did it left a message for me on the brick.” Heather didn’t doubt the message was intended for her for a second. She had a knack for attracting unwanted attention.

  Ryan walked through, and then picked his way across the array of broken glass and directly to the brick. He lifted it, gingerly, and pursed his lips. “Oh boy. I’m going to have to take this into evidence.”

  “But you’re not on the case,” Heather replied.

  “That’s right. Which means I’ll have to call Davidson to report this. I’m sorry, Heather, but you’re a suspect in his case, and that means I have to report anything to do with you. It’s his sole directive.”

  “Ugh, this is terrible. I don’t want you to feel this kind of pressure because of me,” Heather said.

  Ryan laughed. “I can’t believe that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “What, you think I should worry about Detective Davidson?” Heather asked. “In his dreams.” Dave barked in a show of solidarity. “Besides, I think I have bigger problems than him, right now. Like, who threw that brick through our front window?”

  Chapter 7

  Heather clutched Dave’s leash and stared at the construction site, eyes narrowed.

  “Earth to Heather, are you with me?” Amy clicked her fingers underneath Heather’s nose. “I thought we had a perp to interview.”

  “A perp?” Heather asked, mirth tickling the corners of her mouth upwards. “Since when do you talk like a movie cop?”

  “Better than being an actual cop,” Amy replied. “Hand me Dave’s leash. I can wait out here with him.”

  “I don’t see why he’d have to wait outside. This doesn’t look like a dog-free building. I’m pretty sure they have cats and stuff in there,” Heather said, pointing up at the apartment building just ahead of them.

  The white-painted exterior was clean, but a couple of the windows bore smudges, and the front doors showed signs of misuse and age.

  “Tara didn’t live in the best part of town, did she?” Amy muttered.

  They strode toward the building, and then stopped beside a parked burgundy sedan. The clatter of hammers and the growl of drills was invasive, but not loud enough to block out Heather’s humming.

  “What is it this time? Something morose? Are you singing something from the Rocky Horror Picture Show?”

  “No,” Heather said and stopped immediately. “I’m just –”

  “Hey!” A man had appeared on the front stairs of the building “Hey, get your dog away from my car.”

  Heather frowned and looked down at Dave, then stifled a groan.

  Dearest Dave had decided that Amy’s carpets weren’t the only place he liked to go potty. Unfortunately, the dog was a toilet voyeur.

  “I’m sorry,” Heather yelled back, tugging Dave – mid-pee – away from the front wheel of the care. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t notice.”

  The portly dude jogged down the stairs to his building, double chin wobbling.

  “Oh boy, Dave’s bladder strikes again,” Amy muttered. “Really, Dave? There are beautiful white carpets back at my place for this. You know that.”

  Dave whined and had the good grace to look ashamed. That or he was desperate to finish the rest of his ablutions.

  “What are you doing here?” The man asked, digging his little finger into his ear and squishing it around a bit. He grimaced at the construction workers, the scaffolding, and frame of the new construction next door.

  “We’re just taking a walk,” Heather replied, glancing at the apartment building.

  A little girl walked out of the front doors. Actually, she stalked, slightly hunched over and grimacing at the sight of the man. He glanced back, straightened and whistled at her. “Get over here, Lilly, don’t you dare think you’re gonna sneak off again.”

  The girl stood straight, squared her shoulders and hurried over. She had to be about 9 or 10 years of age, but her eyes told a different story. She had the hard look of a person who’d seen hard times, but that gaze melted at the sight of Dave.

  “What a cute little doggy,” she said, softly, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “What’s his name?”

  “Dave,” Amy said, and puffed out her chest with pride.

  “His name is none of your business, girl. Quiet down. The adults are talking,” the guy said.

  Lilly shrugged without breaking eye contact with Dave, who wagged his tail right back at her.

  “I’m Heather Shepherd,” she said and reached out to shake with the rude guy.

  “Larry Jones,” he replied, without shaking. What was it with everyone nowadays? Had hospitality died in the last couple of weeks?

  Larry glanced at Amy, sniffed and wriggled his nose. “And who are you.”

  “I’m none of your business,” Amy replied. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”

  Larry’s balloon face purpled. “Why I ought –”

  “Mr. Jones,” Heather said, in a tone of announcement which cut off his anger at the source, “I wanted to ask you about a girl who lived in this building. Her name was Tara Davidson. She recently passed away.”

  “I have nothing to say to you about that,” Larry replied, stiffly. “You’re not a cop.”

  “No, I’m not, but Tara was an old family friend.”

  “All the more reason not to talk to you about that noisy cow, then,” Larry replied. “Get back inside, Lilly, dinner won’t cook itself.” He tapped her on the top of her head – not a friendly tap either – then wobbled off toward the entrance.

  Amy’s jaw dropped, Heather was a mirror image of her bestie.

  “Well,” Heather said, “so much for that idea.”

  “I knew her,” Lilly said.

  Both women blinked and looked down at the little girl. She had her arms around Dave’s neck. The dog licked her cheeks and wagged his tail in circles.

  “You knew her?”

  “Yeah, Tara. She lived right below us on the ground floor. I didn’t know she died, though,” Lilly said. “Are you investigating her murder?”

  Heather laughed. “How did you figure that out?”

  “I like detective shows,” Lilly replied, then licked her lips. “Hey, I can help you. I can help you investigate. You might not be able to get into the building, but I can.” Her little face shone, anticipation leaking from every pore.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Heather said. “You should get back to your father.” Though what grown man made a child cook dinner was beyond her. The way he’d said it hadn’t been in a friendly ‘let’s cook dinner together as family’ fashion. It’d been a straight command.

  “I’ll be right back,” Lilly said. “You won’t regret this!”

  “What the – I said, no, Lilly! I said, no.” Heather called after her, but the girl was already gone, darting off towards the front of the building.

  “I want to say this is the weirdest interview we’ve ever done, but I’m not sure it qualifies. I mean, there was that time with the murdering billionaire.” Amy shivered and made a ‘yuck’ face.

  “I think we should leave. I don’t feel comfortable taking leads from a kid. This isn’t vanilla stuff. It’s dangerous,” Heather said. She turned and tugged on the end of Dave’s leash.

  He didn’t budge. He’d planted his cute doggy butt on the pavement – just shy of his pee mark – and refused to move.

  “Looks like Dave’s made a new friend,” Amy said.

  Lilly reappeared on the front steps, carrying an envelope in her hands, and sure enough, Dave’s tail spun around like a helicopter rotor at the sight of her.

  Lilly skidded to a halt in front of them, scuffing her sneakers on the tarmac
in her haste. “Here,” she said, then thrust the envelope at Heather.

  She took it and lifted it for Amy to see. Tara’s name was written across the front, and it was stamp-free. Hand delivered.

  “He left that here for her two days ago, in the morning. It was just before I went to school. I remember because dad kicked me out early without my shoes. I didn’t clean them the night before like I was supposed to.”

  “That’s horrible,” Amy said.

  Lilly raised her palms. “I cleaned them when I got home.”

  “No, I meant that he sent you to school without shoes.”

  “Right,” Lilly said, then scrunched up her eyes and bobbed her head up and down. “I don’t know what his name was, but he looked like a football player.”

  “Foster,” Heather muttered. She patted herself down with her left hand, holding the sealed envelope in her right. She grappled the photo out of her back pocket and held it aloft.

  “Is this him?” Heather asked, gesturing with the picture Goldie had given her.

  “Yeah, that’s him. He came around a lot. He had a nice car, too. A Porsche Carrera.”

  Amy arched both eyebrows at the little girl.

  Lilly twisted her braid around her finger. “I like cars.”

  “You don’t say. Well, I know this old lady who has a Mustang in her garage. She never even drives it,” Amy replied.

  “She never drives it?! But why –”

  Heather tuned out their conversation and slipped her thumbnail under the lip of the envelope. This was her first solid clue – barring bricks – and she didn’t want to mess it up.

  Foster Tombs. That was the name she’d found online. Heather shuddered and slit open the envelope.

  Chapter 8

  The directions of the piece of paper from the envelope addressed to Tara were clear.

  Head to the Miller barn just outside of town.

  Everyone in Hillside knew the Millers. They were the wealthiest farming family in town, and they loved showing it off to everyone, especially if there was a festival.

  Heather slipped into the front seat of her affordably priced, definitely not-a-Mustang car and started the engine. She waved once to Amy, Dave, and Lilly, then drove away from the apartment building.

  This was a quest she had to undertake on her own.

  Whatever Foster had wanted to share with Tara, it was private, and that set Heather’s pulse racing. What if the letter had been Foster’s first attempt to lure Tara out to the barn and murder her?

  But what was his motive?

  Unless, Foster, and Goldie had worked together to get rid of Tara. But still, the motive just wasn’t there. Heather grasped the wheel firmly and forced herself to concentrate on the main road out of Hillside.

  Ten minutes later, trees surrounded the car, flashing by in shades of pink, green and brown. The native flora of this state had wowed her since she’d been a kid, and that hadn’t changed.

  The dirt road which led up to the Miller farm was empty, but she drove past it and parked beside one of the fields of corn. The classic red and white barn sat out at the far end, peering between the sheaves, the doors thrown open and darkness staring out from inside.

  “Oh boy, this isn’t creepy,” Heather muttered.

  She got out of the car, locked it, and then wiped the sweat from her brow. The sun had come out strong, though it’d played coy behind the clouds earlier that morning.

  Heather walked to the fence, looked around, and then clambered over, losing whatever dignity she was supposed to have at her age. “Bah, didn’t care that much for dignity anyway,” she said, to herself.

  She hurried through the field, stopping once in a while to glance back at the car. That’d be like getting into a sauna once she was done here.

  Heather hurried into the shadow of the barn, equal parts intrigue and anxiety mulching around inside her.

  There might be evidence in there. Evidence which could clear her as a suspect from this crime. The kind that was irrefutable or –

  “Stop, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” she said, then hummed Bittersweet Symphony.

  She stepped into the barn’s cool interior and glared into the dark recesses. It was pretty empty, except for an array of tools in one corner, and motes of dust highlighted by a window far up on the opposite wall.

  “Why would he meet with her here?” Heather whispered. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Hello?” A man asked.

  Heather jolted, then gripped the front of her blouse and twisted it. “Hello, who’s there?”

  “It’s me,” a voice said.

  “Well, that’s highly illuminating. Could you do me the honor of providing a name?”

  A man, in silhouette, materialized at the other end of the barn and strode towards her. “Foster Tombs,” he said, a low rumble which didn’t match the fresh face from the picture.

  The young man stopped in front of her, a few feet away. Yeah, it was Foster, all right, fresh face and all.

  “How did you find me?” He asked.

  Heather brought the envelope out of her front pocket and held it up. “Tara brought me here.”

  Foster sighed. “Oh Tara,” he muttered.

  “Why did you ask her to meet with you here?” Heather asked, eying the tools in the corner. He didn’t give off a creepy vibe, aside from hanging out in a barn on his own for two days, but she wasn’t prepared to take chances.

  Foster followed her gaze, then raised his palms. “I didn’t hurt her, I swear, and I won’t hurt you either.”

  That was exactly what a murderer would say. Heather gave her head a brief shake to get the negativity out.

  “I’m a friend of Tara’s. I wanted to help figure out what happened to her.” Heather stood her ground and clasped her hands together behind her back. “You left a message for her at her apartment.”

  “In her mailbox, yeah. I wanted her to meet me here. I just got this creepy feeling that something was about to go wrong.” Foster shivered and ran a hand through his springy brown locks. “I didn’t want her to get hurt.”

  “What made you think she would get hurt and, hey, why did you run away from town in the first place.”

  Foster’s bottom lip trembled, his lips went white as sugar. “It’s not what it looks like. It’s not what you think. I, man, I didn’t want to tell anyone this except for her.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “That I was in love with her. I broke up with my girlfriend right before Tara was killed. I wanted to tell Tara that I was ready to take things to the next level with her. To be real boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  Heather pursed her lips. Goldie sure hadn’t mentioned that nugget of information. “I bet your girlfriend took that well.”

  Foster grimaced. “Yeah, she’s not the type to take rejection lightly. She chased me out of her store. But I think she kinda knew that I had a crush on Tara. I never cheated on Goldie, not once, I’m not that kind of guy.”

  Heather glanced at the shaft of light streaming through the window behind Foster. She sneezed and blocked it, then sniffed.

  “Here,” Foster said and handed her a handkerchief. “Don’t worry. It’s clean.”

  Heather took it and wiped her nose. “Thanks,” she said. “But Foster, I don’t get it. Why didn’t you come back to town after Tara’s death?”

  “Because I don’t want to get arrested.”

  Heather blinked and wiped beneath her eyes this time. “But why would that worry you if you’re innocent?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I guess you’ve never met Tara’s father. Mr. Davidson hates me. He has since the moment he met me. The minute I go back into Hillside is the minute I get arrested. He’ll probably find evidence to back it up too, but I swear I didn’t do it.”

  Heather couldn’t help but believe the kid, even though she had to keep her options open. He’d behaved the most suspiciously, yet he had the nicest vibe. Her gut told her that this kid wouldn’t hurt a fly, except
maybe on the football field.

  “All right, but I think you should head back to Hillside. Or at least talk to the Millers and ask if they can get you a meal or a shower or something. You must be starving.”

  “I brought Cheetos,” Foster replied.

  Heather waved, then turned and walked out, still clutching the handkerchief in her fist. Another lead, another boiling day in Hillside.

  She had to get back to Donut Delights and figure this out. Maybe over a donut or five.

  Chapter 9

  Maricela and Heather stood side-by-side serving donuts, coffees, and milkshakes as quick as they could and with plenty of smiles.

  Investigations aside, this was still Heather’s favorite part of the day. The customers in her store chatted and chomped on their favorite donuts. The variety in Donut Delights was huge, with Heather releasing a new variety every week or so.

  Eva sat in the corner, reading a magazine and sipping on a black coffee. The air conditioning unit worked over time above the magazine stand against one wall.

  “Maricela, will you go into the kitchen and ask Ken and Jung to whip up another batch of Cinnamon Crunches? It looks like we’ve almost run out again,” Heather said.

  “Anything for you, boss. I promise I not feed them to Dave this time.” She winked, then showed her fingers were crossed, before hurrying towards the kitchen.

  “Cheeky,” Heather called after her.

  “Who’s cheeky? Surely, not me. I am positively angelic.” Amy grinned from the other side of the counter.

  “Welcome to Donut Delights, how may I help you?” Heather replied, spreading her arms and gesturing to the donuts.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Amy said, then traipsed around to Heather’s side of the counter and checked out the orders on the screen. She tapped a few buttons, nodded, then set to work making two double shot espressos.

  “I should pay you for that,” Heather said.

  Amy didn’t answer. Instead, she looked away and acted as if she hadn’t heard.

  That was strange. Heather bit her bottom lip. Come to think of it, Amy hadn’t been at work for a long time. She’d taken to investigating with Heather instead, and spending a lot of time at Eva’s place.