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

by Susan Gillard

  “Of course, that sounds perfect. It will save me the hassle of making donuts myself. Un momento, por favor,” he said. Then he turned and slipped a bright, silver key from his pocket and locked that door.

  The intrigue built. Heather had to stop herself from asking outright because that would probably be a big no-no for him. She barely knew Chef Dante, after all.

  “Shall we?” Dante asked, then offered her a chubby arm.

  She took it and they walked through to the other side of the kitchen.

  “What’s on the menu, chef?” Dante asked, and leaned against the wall.

  “I’m not sure yet. I wouldn’t mind more of the Tiramisu donuts, but I don’t know. Maybe that’s too obvious.”

  “Ah, when in Italy.” He opened the fridge and brought out a magazine. He waggled it at her. “I always keep one on ice in case of emergencies.”

  He flipped it open, juggling it from the cold, and began reading. “More about Verdi Salsa.”

  “She seems to be a popular topic, nowadays,” Heather replied, as tactfully as possible. Coffee Glazed would have to be it. She was in the sleuthin’ mode now, not the inventing mood.

  “Ever since the death of Gino, her name has been everywhere. She’s a suspect, did you know?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Heather replied, and wriggled her nose. She walked to the coffee machine and mimicked Chef Dante’s button pressing procedure from earlier in the day. “They were deeply in love?”

  “Oh, that’s what everyone believes, but I don’t think so. There was trouble in paradise. They had far too many fights to have been truly in love,” Chef Dante said and flourished the magazine.

  “I see,” Heather said, though she didn’t see. Dante was deeply connected to the saga, but then all tabloid readers were like that.

  They wanted to be involved in the lives of their favorite celebrities, and that wasn’t a crime.

  Murder was, of course.

  Heather tapped her chin, feigning a pensive air. “Hmmm,” she said.

  “A problem?” Dante asked.

  “Oh, I don’t suppose you have any sprinkles in that room of yours back there? I don’t have any and I would’ve liked to make my favorite Funfetti Donuts instead of the Coffee Glaze Tiramisu donuts.”

  Dante jumped as if he’d been electrocuted, then held very still. “No, not sprinkles, I’m afraid. That room holds only the best of my secret savory ingredients. I am not much of a baker, unfortunately.”

  Heather smiled at him, then shrugged. “Ah well, Coffee Glazed donuts it is then,” she said and walked to the coffee machine. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to drink some of this, though?”

  “Not at all,” Dante said, with a forced chuckle. “Let’s both have a cup.”

  Heather prepared the coffee with her back to the Chef, her mind pondering that strange reaction. What exactly was Chef Dante hiding? And why was he so obsessed with Verdi Salsa and her relationship with the victim?

  Chapter 7

  The lobby held a storm in a teacup.

  Not literally, of course, that would’ve been an attraction worth viewing. No, this was something else. This was the kind of storm that tore apart everything in its path, had two legs and arms, and a long mane of brown hair.

  “An angry Italian woman is something to behold,” Heather whispered.

  Ryan nodded mutely.

  Gia Ginelli stood in front of the reception desk, accosting the poor old receptionist, who stammered wordlessly.

  “I demand access to my father’s room,” she yelled and slapped the flat of her palm on the desk. “He was my father, and everything that was his is mine, and that is the final answer.”

  “Sounds like a terrible line from a game show,” Ryan said.

  They weren’t the only ones in the lobby. All the guests had been returning from sightseeing or on their way out, and Ryan and Heather were no different. They wanted to make the best of a bad situation and enjoy what remained of their honeymoon, while the cops and the inspector hung around spouting bad English and asking strange questions.

  “I’m sorry, Signora,” the receptionist said, in between shrieks from the enraged daughter of the actor, “but the police have declared his room to be off-limits.”

  “Off limits!” Gia stomped her foot and shook her mane of dark hair. “Nothing is off limits for a Ginelli.”

  “Looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” Heather said.

  “If both the tree and apple were rotten, then yes, you’re right.” Ryan’s neck had a patchwork of red. The angrier he got, the more crimson it would get.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just don’t like rude people. This reminds me of how rude Gino was to you, and that makes me really angry,” Ryan said, a little too loudly.

  Gia perked up at the mention of her father’s name. She spun on the spot and speared them both with her bright, green-eyed gaze. She could’ve shot fire out of those eyes.

  “Uh oh, you’ve done it now,” Heather whispered, and elbowed him after the fact.

  “Bring it on,” he hissed back.

  Gia Ginelli stopped in front of them, tapping her tapered stiletto heel on the carpet. She wore a stark black pants suit and clutched a pair of oversized sunglasses in her left hand. “Who are you?” She demanded, with a slight Italian accent. She’d clearly traveled a lot.

  “I’m Heather Shepherd, pleased to meet you, Miss Ginelli,” she said and stuck out her hand.

  Gia didn’t take it. She narrowed her eyes at Ryan. “And you?”

  “I’m impatient,” he replied, “and I need to excuse myself from this discussion before I lose my temper.” He turned to Heather and offered his arm. “Shall we, my love?”

  “You go ahead, I’ll catch up with you,” Heather said and kissed his cheek.

  Ryan didn’t need to be told twice. He stomped off to the front of the hotel. The pressure of the wedding and the disruption of their honeymoon had negatively affected him, and she hated that, but what could she do?

  The sooner they got the mystery out of the way, the better. Then they could enjoy what remained of their honeymoon.

  “What do you know about my father?” Gia asked. “I heard you speaking about him.”

  “Not much,” Heather said, keeping her tone level. “He fought with me the night of his death because I spilled water on his Armani suit.”

  “That sounds like father,” Gia replied, and tittered a cold laugh. None of that mirth reached her eyes. “He was a cagey man at the best of times.”

  “Cagey?” Heather asked. “What do you mean?”

  Gia narrowed her eyes and leaned in. “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Because I know someone who might be able to get you into his room,” Heather replied.

  Gia’s eyebrows jumped. They were perfectly plucked, sharp ticks on her forehead. “Then yes, he was cagey. He wouldn’t write me into his will. We argued many times over money because father believed I didn’t deserve an inheritance.”

  “Why not?” Heather asked, glancing at the crowds of hotel dwellers, who had started dispersing. Ryan stood just outside the front door, tapping his foot and checking his watch.

  They had a half hour before they had to get to their tour of Piazza San Marco.

  “Because I have, apparently, squandered his hard-earned money.” Gia recited that as if she’d heard it many times before. “But I knew the truth. I knew why he didn’t want me to have an inheritance or spend any more on his accounts.” Gia folded her arms.

  “And why was that?” This was like a Soap Opera, only better. Heather shuffled a little closer to the actor’s daughter and was assaulted by the sheer volumes of Chanel No. 5 she’d sprayed onto her wrists and throat. That seemed to be where the smell originated from.

  “Because he was broke,” Gia said, and sniffed. “He was hiding it from everyone, except for Verdi Salsa and when she found out, that’s when she dumped him. She wanted his money too, I mean, just her, she just want
ed his money.”

  “And you didn’t want anything to do with his money?” Heather framed it as a question, but it was just an observation. Gia Ginelli was money hungry and as rude as her father.

  “How dare you,” Gia said, narrowing her eyes. “I loved my father!”

  “I never said you didn’t,” Heather replied, calm as could be. That was the trick with these reactionary types, act innocent. She’d provoked Gia, but if the Italian had been free of blame, she wouldn’t have risen to the challenge. That was the rub.

  Gia wasn't placated. She slammed her stiletto down on the carpet again and poked a hole in it.

  The receptionist hurried around the desk.

  “I think that’s my cue,” Heather said. She walked off, then paused and looked back. “If you want access to your father’s room…” Heather wriggled her nose. She could tell her to go to Mistico, who had access to all the rooms, but Gia’s behavior was beyond suspicious.

  She truly could be the murderer. And Heather refused to give a cold-blooded killer access to the victim’s belongings.

  Gia stared at her, waiting for the information.

  “If you want access to your father’s room, you should speak to Inspector Matteo Ajello.”

  Gia shrieked instead of responding.

  Chapter 8

  “Heather,” Ryan said and frowned at her. He glanced at the cameras in the cordoned off section at the Piazza San Marco. The director sat in his chair, conversing in fluent and mostly unintelligible Italian with a young, male assistant. They flung their arms in the air.

  The assistant patted a sheaf of paper with the back of his hand.

  The director shook his head and grasped his forehead.

  “I swear, I had no idea that she’d be here.”

  Verdi Salsa stood in the distance, surrounded by a swarm of makeup artists. She had positioned herself close to the rope which had been used to close the public off from the set, and reached across to sign autographs and shake hands with her fans.

  “Heather,” Ryan repeated.

  “I’m telling the truth. This is just some weird type of serendipity.” Heather slipped her arm through her husband’s, and they walked through Venice’s main square.

  Pigeons fluttered around, searching for bits of bread or seeds. Tourists took photos and posed, a lot of them holding up peace signs or laughing. It was a happy setting, but Heather couldn’t tear her gaze from Verdi Salsa.

  The Spanish-born actress was positively statuesque and dressed in beautiful silks for whatever scene she was about to shoot. She readjusted a long glove on her arm, waved another makeup artist out of her path, and then signed another autograph.

  “I wonder if we should –”

  “Don’t even say it,” Ryan replied. “I’m all for solving this murder and clearing our names, but I highly doubt the actress is going to want to talk to us, two complete strangers, about her dead ex-boyfriend.”

  Heather nodded reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right.”

  They strolled past the group of fans, holding out photos and calling to Verdi, and Heather studied the woman as best she could between their bobbing heads. She was a truly gorgeous woman.

  And she seemed classy too; she had that air about her. What she’d wanted with a chump like Gino ‘Armani Suit’ Ginelli was another question entirely.

  Gia said money, but Verdi had to have plenty of her own if she was this popular.

  Ryan directed Heather away from Verdi. “It’s wonderful to be out here with you,” he said and brushed the bare skin of her forearm with his fingertips. “I love you, Heather.”

  “I love you too,” she said and grinned at him.

  In spite of all they’d been through, they had reached this point, and that counted for a lot. This relationship had helped form who she was, and how she saw the world, mysteries included.

  They wandered along, but Heather stopped after a few paces and pointed. “Look there.”

  Ryan followed her gaze and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not, no.”

  A group of trailers sat at one end of the square, and Verdi Salsa’s name was scrawled across the door of one, bright as day. Well, it was in black cursive font, but it was evident.

  That was probably a better metaphor for it. Clear as day.

  “Come on, Ryan,” Heather whispered. “Live a little.”

  “I can’t condone this. Since when have you been this much of a risk-taker? You could get in trouble.” Ryan was good at scolding - it was the officer in him that took his technique to the next level.

  But no amount of scolding could discourage Heather.

  “If only you knew how much trouble I’m willing to get into to clear our names. Or save lives. Ryan, the murderer is still out there, maybe even close by or living in the hotel, or maybe it’s even Verdi herself. We need to solve it.”

  “Totally, I agree, but that doesn’t mean we can break into her trailer,” Ryan whispered, looking around to check no one had overheard.

  “You’re out of your jurisdiction here, detective. We don’t have your police backing to help us here. There’s no other way,” Heather said and nodded. “Look, I’m going. You can either come with me or stay here. I’ll understand either way.”

  “If I go with, I could lose my job.”

  “Then all I ask is that you turn a blind eye,” Heather replied, and slipped her arm from her husband’s. It wasn’t fair of her to put him in jeopardy like this, but it also wasn’t fair for them to be accused of murder.

  And Heather Shepherd would do what it took to clear their names.

  Ryan dutifully turned his back on her.

  Heather hurried towards the trailer, her pulse hammering against the fine skin of her throat. She reached the trailer and whistled a tune, took out her phone and pretended to snap a few pictures of the ornate buildings surrounding the square.

  No one paid any attention to her, and the filming had started in the distance. Everyone was preoccupied.

  Heather rocketed up the front stairs and tried the front door of the trailer. It swung inward, and she stepped into Verdi Salsa’s dressing room.

  The scent of rose petals and the pink table cloth over the dressing table were what she noticed first. The room was exceptionally neat, and the sunlight streaming through the window picked out a few motes of dust.

  Heather hurried to the table and checked for drawers. She slid one open, rooted around inside it and found nothing but makeup brushes and a box of Belgian chocolates.

  She tried the drawer below that one and… bingo.

  A copy of a police report, the official lettering in Italian, but with all of Verdi’s responses in English, probably because she was Spanish and didn’t have full mastery of the language, beyond the lines she memorized for her shows.

  Heather read the report and gasped.

  She took out her phone and snapped a few pictures, looking back at the entrance to the trailer. The coast was still clear.

  She couldn’t believe this. Verdi Salsa had filed for a restraining order against Gino Ginelli because he’d verbally and physically abused her.

  Heather slipped the report back into the drawer, closed it, and rushed out of the trailer. The sunlight blinded her, and she put her hand up to shield her eyes. Ryan stepped out from behind the trailer.

  “Are you done?” He grunted.

  “Yes, and you’ll never believe what I’ve found,” she said. She brought out her phone and beckoned for him to join her.

  Chapter 9

  Ryan was fast asleep on the loveseat, with the TV blaring on Italian shows. News and sitcoms, anything and everything in between. Verdi Salsa had made an appearance a few times herself.

  Once again, Heather couldn’t sleep. She slipped Ryan’s head off her lap and tiptoed to the door.

  Ever since she’d found the police report, her mind had been abuzz with questions. Poor Verdi had gone through abuse. What if she’d reached the end of her tether? She might’ve decided to get ri
d of the threat that was Gino, once and for all.

  That was a truly horrible thought.

  Verdi was another victim in all of this, and Heather didn’t want to blame her for any of it, not even mentally.

  She had to talk to someone about this, and Amy hadn’t answered her phone earlier. She missed her best friend dearly. Perhaps she could try again.

  Heather let herself into the hall and shut the door firmly behind herself, then brought out her smartphone and tapped on the screen.

  “Pretty lady,” a woman hissed.

  Heather jumped and dropped her phone. It smacked into the carpet. “Oh no,” she said, then hurried to pick it up.

  But Mistico got to it first. The old lady was surprisingly quick. She snatched up the phone and forced at Heather, her wrinkly hands shaking. “You must be more careful, pre –”

  “Heather,” she said.

  “Heather,” Mistico repeated, as if took physical effort to remember the name.

  “How can I help you, Mistico?” Heather asked. She checked her phone and tapped the power button, but it didn’t switch on. Ah, well that was just perfect.

  She’d been so looking forward to speaking to Amy about the case. She needed a sounding board for her thoughts and ideas, and Ryan was already conflicted about breaking the rules.

  Amy had no such qualms.

  “Heather,” Mistico said.

  She jumped and looked up at the old lady. “Sorry, I was somewhere else. Yes, uh, what can I help you with?”

  “I have more to tell of the murder,” Mistico said.

  More information from Mistico’s wall ears? This should be interesting.

  “Would you like to take a walk with me?” Heather asked, and gestured down the hall. “We could go to the kitchen, and I’ll make you a donut.”

  “No!” Mistico hissed. “We mustn’t go near the kitchen, no, no. Too many walls.”

  “Ears.”

  “This is as I said.”

  Heather drew in a breath. “All right, then let’s walk together. We can whisper if that will make you feel more comfortable.”

  Mistico nodded reluctantly. She shuffled over to a metal cart which contained cleaning chemicals and a few other cleaning implements, the hairy head of a mop poked out of one side of it.