Chocolate Tiramisu Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 9

by Susan Gillard

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  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2016 by Guardian Publishing Group - All rights reserved.

  All rights Reserved. No part of this publication or the information in it may be quoted from or reproduced in any form by means such as printing, scanning, photocopying or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 1

  Heather and Ryan stood in the lobby of the Hotel Venezia with their bags around their ankles, holding hands.

  “I’m so glad we’re off that airplane,” Ryan said and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.

  “Right? That lady with the attitude, wow.” Heather shook her head.

  Through some strange mix-up at the airport, Ryan and Heather’s seats had been separated by the aisle, and they had to spend the flight dealing with two senile ladies. One for Heather and one for Ryan, not exactly the perfect way to start their Venetian Honeymoon.

  “We’re here now, that’s all that matters,” Heather said.

  They’d sent Dave back with Amy, who’d sworn to protect him and her furry white carpets with sheets of plastic, but Heather still couldn’t help worrying about her do-gooder puppy dog.

  An old man shuffled to the front desk, which was a curved mahogany construction, accented with gold and polished to perfection, and nodded towards them.

  “Good day, lady and gentleman. How may I be of service to the lovely couple?” His Italian accent was thick, but after a wedding in France, Heather was used to listening carefully to what people had to say.

  “We’re checking in,” Ryan said, stepping forward. “Our reservation is under Shepherd?”

  “Very well,” the receptionist replied. He bent over a computer and typed with his two forefingers. Tick, tick, tick went the keys.

  Heather used the lapse in action to stroll around the lobby of the hotel. It wasn’t huge, not as opulent and styled as the Hotel Saint James had been, but it was beautiful.

  A delicate crystal chandelier hung above a central table in the room, also accented with gold gilt and carrying a massive centerpiece of snow white lilies. Heather bent to sniff them.

  Something slammed into her side and the tip of her nose connected with the centermost flower. Heather grabbed at the table to stop from falling on top of the arrangement.

  “Oh!” She yelped.

  The thin porcelain vase wobbled and bobbled, then totally betrayed her. It keeled over and smashed onto the surface of the table. Flowers and water sprayed from the top and hit the maroon carpets below.

  “Idiota!” A man yelled beside her.

  Heather’s heart leaped into her throat, and she turned to take in the damage.

  A handsome fifty-something year old with a thick head of black hair and sharp blue eyes, glared at her. He wore a well-fitted suit which was now drenched in water and pollen.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry,” Heather said. “Are you all right?” She had the habit of apologizing even though it was him who’d bumped into her first.

  Served her right for stopping to smell the daisies.

  Ryan rushed up beside her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just a bit of an accident?”

  “Accident?” The man exclaimed, in perfect English. “Accident?! I am on my way to the premiere of my movie, and you have ruined my suit. Rude woman. Pig woman.”

  “Whoa,” Heather said. That was uncalled for.

  “Don’t speak to my wife like that.” Ryan folded his arms and aligned himself with Heather, bumping his hip against hers lightly.

  She followed the example and folded her arms too. “You bumped into me, sir. And I’d appreciate an apology.”

  The receptionist hurried around the mahogany desk, gripping the edge and shuffling his tired feet towards them. “What is the problem?”

  “This man bumped into me, I broke the vase and is now causing a scene about it,” Heather said, matter-of-factly. Take that rude Italian dude.

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” The Italian asked.

  The receptionist grimaced and knuckled his forehead. “Signore Ginelli, please calm yourself.”

  “Calm myself? The woman has ruined my evening and does not understand that gravity of her mistake. She must pay for this. I demand reparations!” Ginelli raised his fist in the air and shook it.

  “What a wonderful way to start our honeymoon,” Ryan muttered.

  But the name Ginelli rang a bell. Heather was sure she’d read it somewhere before.

  “Look, I’m not paying for anything,” she said, and let her arms drop to her sides. “This was an accident.”

  “Of course not, signora, you will pay for nothing,” the receptionist replied, his gray eyebrows wiggling up and down.

  “She will pay for my suit,” Ginelli yelled. “This is Georgio Armani. Do you know who that is, woman? Probably not. You don’t have an ounce of class. I can tell from your…your –” He cut off and pointed at her clothes.

  “Cardigan,” Heather said, helpfully. “And if clothes measured class, we wouldn’t be having this lovely little conversation.”

  “You dare –”

  “Gino!” The receptionist hissed. “Gino, people are starting to stare.”

  The man looked around the lobby, at the gathering crowd of newcomers who wanted to check in and the other patrons of the hotel. A few faces peered out of a door at the end of the lobby, which gave a sneak peek of a room beyond with a television on the wall and a bartender frozen to the spot, with a glass in one hand.

  The horrible guy made a grunting noise, then pushed past Heather and Ryan and strode out of the front doors. He snapped at the doorman too.

  “What a temper,” Heather said.

  Ryan was purple with rage. “I want to know who that was. And I want to report him for harassment.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Ryan.” Heather massaged a spot on the back of his neck. “He’s not worth the trouble, and we’re here to celebrate our honeymoon.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Signora, he is a famous actor for us, Gino Ginelli. He has been living in the hotel for a long time.” The receptionist pulled a face.

  Clearly, this wasn’t the first incident with Mr. Ginelli. Finally, the name made sense to her. She’d probably read the Foreign Arts section of a paper and seen a report on the guy.

  “Signore, your room is prepared, and the bellboy has taken the bags for you.” The receptionist took a key chain out from behind his back and handed it to Ryan. “I can only apologize for Signore Ginelli’s behavior. Perhaps a complementary bottle of champagne?”

  “Yeah, that’ll work,” Ryan replied, and sniffed.

  Heather took his arm, and together they walked to the o
rnate elevator at the other end of the lobby. The gazes of those onlookers who’d witnessed the fight followed them, closely.

  Chapter 2

  “Are you ready for a day of adventure?” Heather called, rapping her knuckles on the bathroom door. “Hurry it up in there, Detective, we’ve got canals to traverse.”

  Ryan exited the bathroom straightening his jacket. “I don’t think you can cross waterways. We can sail down them, though.”

  “While being serenaded by our Gondola driver guy,” Heather replied.

  “I think I’ll pass. How will we appreciate the screaming Italian actors and pooping pigeons if all that ambiance is blocked out by a yodeling man in a wicker hat?”

  Heather chuckled. “Somebody’s still grumpy about Gino Ginelli.”

  Ryan shrugged. “I don’t like rude guys. And I don’t like people who insult you. He nailed both those objectives.”

  Heather snatched her handbag off the bed, then grabbed an information pamphlet off the desk in the corner. They’d opted out of any set tours because they wanted to have free reign of Venice, explore it for themselves.

  Maybe stop at a bakery and check out a few treats.

  They had phoned ahead to the hotel and asked if Heather could have free reign in the kitchen because she simply couldn’t carry on without making and creating donuts. The hotel had been shocked, but after several discussions with the manager, a surly man named Giancomo, had permitted it.

  “Are you ready?” Heather asked, smiling at her husband.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied, then grabbed the door handle and opened up.

  An Italian police officer filled the frame, one fist raised to knock on the door which had been pulled open. “Uh,” he said. Gold accented his navy blue uniform, and he had a cap tucked beneath his right arm, pinned between his body and elbow.

  “Hello, officer, how may we help you?” Heather asked, but already her stomach had sunk.

  Was it her life’s calling to be in intimate contact with the law? And murderers? Something bad had happened, she could feel it in her bones.

  “I am Inspector Matteo Ajello,” he said, formally, then cleared his throat. “I have come to ask you a few questions. Would you sit to care?”

  “Uh,” Ryan replied.

  “I think he’s asking us to take a seat, Ryan,” Heather said.

  “Yes, that is it,” the inspector replied, then rammed his police hat on his head. “Please to sit.” He gestured to the chairs in the living room section of their honeymoon suite.

  Heather and Ryan walked through to the area and sat down next to each other on a loveseat. They held hands and exchange a glance. Ryan’s said, ‘here we go again.'

  The Inspector shut the door behind himself, then walked through to the living area and sat down on an overstuffed red velvet chair.

  “How may we help you?” Heather asked, and swallowed.

  “I am here in the inspection of the murder investigation.” The inspector sat with his palms pressed together, and a severe frown wrinkling his brow. He crossed and uncrossed his leg. “It seems you are having la disputa with the Signore Gino Ginelli?”

  Heather sighed and rubbed at her temples.

  Gino Ginelli was dead, and of course, they’d be suspects because everyone in the lobby had witnessed the argument.

  “Yes, we had a run-in with him last night. But I wouldn’t call it a dispute. He bumped into me, I knocked over a vase, and it ruined his suit.” Heather said. “He was angry about it.”

  Ryan grumbled under his breath.

  The inspector turned his frown on her husband. “What seems the matter to be?”

  “The man was rude to my wife. He demanded that she buy him a new suit.”

  “I see,” the inspector replied, and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He took notes on it in Italian, the yellow memo pad bright on the screen.

  “Excuse me, Inspector,” Heather said, nudging Ryan to get him to reel it in.

  “Yes?” The inspector didn’t look up from his furious screen tapping.

  “Could you tell me what happened to Signore Ginelli? How did he die?”

  “He was, how do you say, he was smack on the back of the head, then he drown in the canal outside.” The inspector said, absently. He waved his hand to quiet them and carried on tapping.

  “Oh my gosh,” Heather whispered.

  “No, Heather, don’t even think about it,” Ryan grunted. “We’re here on our honeymoon, to enjoy ourselves.”

  The inspector looked up at that. “Oh, the honeymoon? Congratulations, this is happy time for lovers. Soon after comes the fighting, then the quiet nights and the divorce.”

  Were all Italian men rude?

  “Excuse me?” Ryan asked, and rose suddenly. “I think it’s time for you to leave, inspector.”

  The officer stood and tucked his smartphone back into his pocket. “I’ll be in touch. You don’t go anywhere, yes?”

  “Yes,” Heather replied, helpfully.

  Ryan grumbled again, and she had to elbow him for the second time in five minutes.

  The inspector watched the exchange impassively.

  “Sorry, inspector, but do you know what he was hit with?” Heather asked.

  “No, we not have the weapon.” The inspector turned on his heel and frog-marched to the door to their room. He strode into the hall and disappeared without a backward glance.

  “Nice guy,” Heather murmured.

  “Well, that’s officially made me want to stay inside and binge on donuts all day,” Ryan said. He sat back down on the cushy loveseat, with a sigh. “I know what’s coming next.”

  “What do you mean? I didn’t know you were familiar with the foreign law.”

  “No, not that,” Ryan replied. “You’re going to investigate this, aren’t you?”

  Heather let the awkward silence grow. She winced and shrugged her shoulders. She couldn’t deny that her itchy sleuthin gene had already danced up and down her chromosome.

  A tap dance of demand.

  Ryan sat back with a sigh. “I knew it.”

  “Ryan, they think we did it, otherwise why would they have questioned us?” Heather asked.

  “You can’t let this one go?”

  “Can you?” Heather asked. They had the same constitution, after all, he was a police detective for heaven’s sake.

  Ryan straightened and dusted off his jacket. “I suppose you’re right. Besides, what do we love more than solving murders?”

  “I’ve never loved you more,” Heather replied, extending her hand.

  “And I love you,” Ryan replied. “But let’s start the investigation later. I’ve got a hankering for some of your donuts.”

  “Your wish is my command, husband.”

  Chapter 3

  Heather tied on an apron and grinned at the marble-topped counters in the hotel kitchen. This had a homey feel, unlike the kitchen at the Saint James.

  Chef Dante was a jolly guy with a penchant for gossip. He stood in the corner with one leg crossed over the other, holding a tabloid mag between his chubby fingertips. He licked his thumb and flipped the page.

  He’d taken Heather under his wing the minute she’d strolled into the kitchen and told her his entire life story right away.

  “This Verdi Salsa,” he said, shaking his head so that his double chins wobbled. He chuckled. “She’s the Spanish actress I used to love, but now. It seems that she’s lost it.” Dante’s accent was impeccable, and so was his mastery of the English language.

  He’d spent years working with Gordon Ramsey.

  Chefs rushed around at the other end of the kitchen, cooking up a storm, producing Michelin quality dishes.

  The Hotel Venezia had downscaled a few years ago, but they’d never bothered to close off the unused portion of the kitchen. Fortunate for Heather, since she could work in peace, but still appreciate the smells and sounds from the cooking side of the room.

  “Listen to this,” Chef Dante said, glancin
g at her. “I’ll translate for you. Verdi Salsa, who was meant to appear at the premiere of her new movie, Shutter Speed, last night, never turned up. Miss Salsa took offense to something her ex-lover, Gino Ginelli, had said, and refused to attend.”

  Heather stopped mixing the batter for her newest invention, Coffee-Glazed Tiramisu Donuts. “What did you say?”

  “Yes,” Chef Dante replied, “Verdi was in a relationship with the horrible guy who used to live here.”

  “Gino Ginelli,” Heather said, then mixed the batter a bit more. It was still too lumpy, and she wanted the smoothest possible rings for her donuts. She’d dolloped a teensy bit of Frangelico into the mix. The Alcohol would bake off, but the flavor would remain.

  “That’s right,” Chef Dante replied, and slapped the tabloid closed. He tossed it onto a spare counter, then folded his arms. “You heard of his murder, si?”

  “Si,” Heather replied. “I heard. We had a detective come up to our room this morning, and inspector I mean. He asked us questions about our argument with Gino last night.”

  “Ah, an argument?” Chef Dante placed his hand over his heart and feigned surprise. “But Signore Ginelli was such a lovely man. It’s impossible.”

  “I take it you didn’t like him much.” Heather placed the bowl of batter next to the donut tray, then walked to the oven and checked it was the right temperature.

  “I liked him like a man loves a thorn in the side. He sent back every meal I ever made him. Every single meal.”

  “Oh wow. Tough customer?”

  “He would eat half the plate of food, then complain about the quality and demand a new one,” Chef Dante replied, his eyes crinkling up. “Then I send the new one, and he eats it all and complains again.”

  “Wow, I’ve been in the food industry for a long time, and I’ve got to say, I’ve never had a customer like that,” Heather replied. “It sounds like he’s the kind of man who had a lot of enemies.”

  Chef Dante nodded, absently. “Yes. That magazine says he fought with Verdi only two nights ago, and they broke off the relationship. It was a long time coming. She was too classy for him. Never complained once about my dishes.”