Survival of the Fritters

by Ginger Bolton

  “Um, good,” I managed. “I’ve been talking to her friend Lois.” What had she told me her last name was?

  “Unterlaw? One of the women who was with you when you discovered Ms. Treetor’s body?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s on my list to call, too.”

  “Does that mean . . .” I didn’t want to finish the sentence in Lois’s hearing. It was bad enough that her friend was dead. Although I knew she suspected that Georgia had been murdered, Lois shouldn’t have to hear it spelled out in harsh, cold words.

  As I’d hoped he might, Brent finished the question for me. “Does it mean we’re investigating her death as a homicide? Sorry, I’m afraid we are.”

  Lois was watching me. I tried to keep my expression neutral. “Lois just told me something that I—we—think you should hear. Want us to come to the station?”

  Lois made an exaggeratedly frowny face.

  Brent asked, “Where are you?”

  “Her house.”

  “I’ve got her address. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He hung up.

  There, I told myself, that wasn’t so bad. Brent and I could talk to each other without allowing our grief to overwhelm us.

  In the kitchen, I washed the dishes. Lois lovingly dried them and put them away. We didn’t talk. She was probably planning what to tell Brent.

  I always tried to avoid thinking about the evening that Alec died. However, knowing that I was going to have to spend more than a few minutes with Brent, I couldn’t help reliving that devastating night.

  Like Alec, Brent was a kind man, funny and smart. Where Alec had been wiry, quick, and given to pranks, Brent was a gentle giant. He was sturdy, thoughtful, and fond of saying witty things in a deadpan voice and with a perfectly straight face. Alec had caught on to Brent’s jokes immediately, and I had learned to.

  But that one night just over three years ago, I’d traded shifts with a new 911 operator so I could go to dinner with out-of-town friends the only evening they were available. Alec hadn’t been able to take time off to join us.

  That night, when I wasn’t working the phones at 911 but should have been, Alec and Brent were shot.

  Brent had been only grazed. His arm bandaged, he’d come to Alec’s and my home to tell me news that would shatter me and change my life forever.

  Alec had not survived.

  I’d been too desperate, too much in shock, to recognize the anguish that Brent must also have been feeling. As if all of my joints were frozen in place, I’d stood facing Brent, and I hadn’t allowed the man’s sympathy and compassion anywhere near me. Feeling like I’d sprouted a coat of thorns and barbed wire, I’d moved to put the dining table between us. I’d wailed, “I should have been at work tonight! I should not have traded shifts with the new guy! I could have made the calls faster, gotten police backup to the scene sooner, sped the ambulance, and saved Alec.”

  “Don’t let the what-ifs get to you, Em,” Brent had said. “Didn’t they tell you that during training?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know it would be my own husband.”

  Brent had stayed calm despite my near hysterics. “I radioed headquarters that we’d been shot even before a citizen phoned 911. When police headquarters hear ‘officer down’ they really move. Neither you nor your substitute could have done anything more quickly than it was done.”

  “We were only married four years. It’s not fair.”

  “I know.”

  His gentle tone had undone me. I’d turned away and told him I wanted to be alone.

  He’d remained still and silent for a few seconds before saying, “If you need to talk, call me. Any time.” Then he’d let himself out.

  I hadn’t called. Two weeks later, I could no longer stand working at 911, and I’d quit.

  Brent had phoned. “You save lives, Em,” he’d said.

  “Not the most important one. Don’t try to talk me into going back. I won’t. I can’t. Ever.”

  Then I’d started making donuts, lots of donuts, more donuts than I could ever eat. For some reason, replicating Alec’s favorite treat was consoling. Partly as a sop to my conscience for being short with Brent—had he thought I wished he’d taken the fatal bullet instead of Alec?—I’d boxed up three dozen donuts and left them at the police station.

  The next day, one of the officers called and asked me to create a castle of donuts to serve as a cake at her twins’ fourth birthday party.

  That castle of donuts caused quite a stir. Before long, most of the three- to nine-year-olds in Fallingbrook demanded birthday cakes made of donuts stuck together to resemble forts, robots, or princesses, and the adults loved the coffee I brought to the parties. Actually, they liked the donuts, too. Folks in Fallingbrook, especially members of the police force, badgered me to open a coffee and donut shop.

  Brent had been the only dissenter. He’d phoned. “They’d take you back at 911, Em. You’re the best they ever had. I’m not just saying that. I mean it.”

  Except for the night I traded shifts so I could go out and have fun.

  During the next few months, Brent had often called to ask how I was, but I’d kept my answers short, and our correspondence tapered off. Eventually, he stopped contacting me.

  The last time I’d seen him, other than when he arrived at Georgia’s to investigate her death, was at the trial of the man who’d killed Alec and injured Brent. After the verdict, Brent had sought me out. Hands clenched at my sides, I’d thanked him for helping convict the shooter.

  “If you ever need to talk, Em,” Brent had murmured, “I’m always available.”

  My response had come out before I could think about it or stop it. “Me, too. If you ever need to talk.” Brent was good at keeping his thoughts and emotions hidden. But surprise had flickered through those gray eyes before he became expressionless again, and I’d blurted, “You don’t always have to be the one that others lean on. You’re allowed to ask for help, too.”

  He’d stared at me for a second as if wondering what to say, and then his phone had beeped, and he’d apologized and taken the call.

  And I had fled the courthouse.

  Neither of us had accepted the offer to talk. I had Misty, Samantha, and a donut shop full of knitters, cops, and caring citizens to talk to, if I wanted to, but my years of happiness with Alec had been no one else’s business, and neither was the depth of my grief.

  And if Brent wanted to tell someone his troubles, he had his colleagues on the force, and, according to Misty, his leggy girlfriends.

  My hands were still in the dishwater when the doorbell rang. Was it Brent? Or last night’s attacker?

  Lois tossed me a towel. “Come help me answer.”

  Fortunately, her door had a peephole, and Brent was standing far enough back for me to see him. In his jeans, black T-shirt, and sneakers, he could almost pass as a civilian. However, the tweed blazer, which probably hid a shoulder holster, and his wary policeman-like bearing gave him away. Even through the distorting lens and in the dim light on the porch, I could tell he was exhausted.

  I opened the door. Ordinarily, I might hug an old friend, or at least offer a hand to shake, but what did one do when the old friend had almost become a former friend, and was here to question me and a new friend about a murder?

  Dep had no doubts about socially acceptable behavior. Mewing, tail straight up, she marched to Brent and began rubbing cat hair onto his jeans. He looked down. “Deputy Donut?” A question in his eyes, he returned his gaze to me.

  Feeling stiff and artificial, I locked the door. “Yes.” I cupped a hand around Lois’s elbow. “Brent, this is Lois, my new neighbor. Dep found a secret passage between my yard and hers, so we’ve been sharing her.”

  Brent backed slightly and clapped a hand over his heart. “A secret passage?”

  He was defusing the situation with humorous fake surprise, and I couldn’t help smiling. “Only big enough for a cat.”

  Lois offered her hand to Brent.


  He shook it. “You have something you want to run past me?”

  “When did you last eat?” she answered.

  He rubbed his chin. He had at least a day’s growth of beard. “I don’t remember.”

  “Come on through to the kitchen. We didn’t finish the salmon, squash, and risotto.”

  He glanced at me. Was he afraid of being poisoned? Maybe he thought Lois could be the murderer he was seeking.

  “It’s delicious,” I said.

  He followed us into the kitchen. Lois told us to sit at the table while she rustled up his dinner. Dep jumped onto Brent’s lap. Lois set a plate in front of him. Dep inched her face dangerously close to his salmon.

  Plucking her off Brent’s lap would have invaded his personal space. I ordered, “Dep, get down.”

  Like she ever obeyed when she didn’t want to.

  Lois opened the pretty aqua fridge. After giving me some reproachful cattitude as if to inform me that she wasn’t following my orders and it was solely her decision to abandon Brent’s lap and his salmon, Dep landed on the floor and daintily accepted a sardine from Lois, who then sat at her kitchen table and watched Brent eat.

  He finished his meal with only a little intervention from Dep. He thanked Lois, took out his notebook, and gave me that steady look that could unnerve a criminal.

  Actually, it could unnerve someone who wasn’t a criminal, also. I apologized for tampering with the scene and the evidence.

  Brent shrugged. “It’s a normal reaction. We’re taught to uncover faces and remove obstructions to breathing. Most people would have done the same.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “I would if I thought I could save someone.”

  “But I couldn’t save her, and my tampering meant that, when you arrived, you couldn’t be certain it was . . .” I threw an apologetic look at Lois. The unsaid word hung in the air, anyway. “Murder,” I managed in a hoarse voice.

  “Were you certain?” he asked me.

  “Yes.”

  Lois wiped her eyes. “It certainly looked that way.”

  Brent studied her bowed head for a second before turning back to me. “Em, you said there was something else that you two wanted to tell me.”

  I described hearing Lois’s call for help, running around the block to her house, and finding the front door open, a lampshade knocked awry, photo albums scattered on the floor, and Lois, injured, lying on the lawn out back.

  Brent questioned her about the attacker. Her story was consistent with what she’d told me. She didn’t know who it was, or whether it was a man or a woman, and whoever it was had threatened Lois with death if Lois told anyone about being attacked. “And I’m fine,” she concluded. “It was barely a scratch.”

  I corrected her. “She was knocked unconscious.”

  Lois shrugged. “Only for a few seconds.”

  Brent was watching her intently. “Did you see a doctor about it?”

  She shook her head. “It was nothing. Besides, Emily insisted on calling me every hour all night to make certain I was all right.”

  Brent flashed me an unreadable look. “And were you?” he asked Lois.

  “Of course.”

  Brent was quiet for a while, writing in his notebook. He raised his head and asked Lois, “Do you have any idea why this person attacked you?”

  She nodded. “He or she must have heard me outside and wanted to keep me from discovering him or her ripping pictures out of my photo album.” She told him about taking photos and seeing a car the evening that Matthias Treetor went missing. “At the time, I didn’t know he was missing, and I didn’t really look at the car, but it ended up in one of the pictures. Later, after Matthias’s body was found near where I’d been that evening, I looked more closely at that photo. Because of the glare on the windshield, I couldn’t make out who the driver was, but I thought I recognized the car. However, that car’s owner would have stopped to say hello. But he didn’t, so it couldn’t have been who I thought it was.”

  I remembered that the grave had been barely more than a shallow scraping in dead leaves on the forest floor, as if the murderer had been in a hurry. And I doubted that many murderers would stop to chat in the midst of fleeing the site where they’d buried a victim.

  I suspected that Brent was thinking the same thing, but he only asked, “Who did you think it was?” His manner was calm, his voice steady.

  Lois glanced at me and twisted her mouth. “I’m sure it wasn’t him, but the car looked like one my great-nephew had at the time.”

  Brent asked, “What’s his name?”

  Suddenly I knew.

  Chapter 10

  Randy Unterlaw had been two years ahead of Misty, Samantha, and me at Fallingbrook High. If the three of us thought about studious Scott at all, we admired him, and we’d all had crushes on Oliver, but most of the girls we knew had never tired of watching and talking about Randy. He’d been good-looking in that bad boy, I-don’t-care-what-anyone-thinks way. Girls salivated over him, partly because of his looks and his devil-may-care attitude, but also because he had his own car from the moment he turned sixteen. Girls could go—or fantasize about going—on dates with him, and none of their fathers or mothers would have to drive, saddling their daughters with embarrassing and inconvenient chaperones. I hadn’t seen him or thought about him since around the time that Scott, Oliver, and presumably Randy, also, had graduated.

  “Randy Unterlaw,” Lois told Brent. “He’s my great-nephew. He’s the only family I have. He lived with me during his teen years after his mom’s latest husband became difficult. Randy’s a good boy.” With an earnest look on her face, Lois scooted forward on her kitchen chair. “Matthias was like a caring older brother to Randy, and Randy was terribly broken up when Matthias was killed. And Georgia was like another great-aunt to Randy. He’s broken up over her, too. He would never have hurt either one of them. Or anyone.”

  Brent stared down at his notebook.

  Anyone? I remembered Randy being hauled, frequently, into the principal’s office because of fighting with other boys. Randy had been expelled or suspended a few times, which only made him more intriguing to many of the girls. Maybe Lois was an older version of the girls who thought they could rescue bad boys. Lois would be loyal to family, besides.

  Brent looked up at her again. His expression was neutral. “Can you describe the car you saw the evening that Matthias Treetor went missing?”

  This time, she added a crucial detail. “One of the fenders was white.”

  No, I thought, noooo. During his high school years, Randy had owned a series of memorably dented old cars with mismatched panels. My heart almost broke for Lois. She obviously loved her great-nephew, but he could be a murderer. And he could have attacked her last night.

  She explained her theory that if Matthias’s murderer had been driving that car, the murderer might have mistaken Lois for Georgia. “We traded vehicles that day.”

  Brent asked. “What kind of vehicle did Georgia own at the time?”

  Lois didn’t hesitate. “The one that was in her driveway Monday evening.”

  Brent frowned. “Silver compact sedan, similar to about a million others in Wisconsin.”

  Lois folded her hands on the table. Her knuckles paled. “If all the driver of that black car with the white fender knew about me was that I was driving a silver compact sedan, it’s no wonder it took him five years to track down Georgia’s car.” She shuddered. “Except it was really me he wanted to track down.”

  I added a theory. “Maybe he had a good memory for license numbers, and it took him five years to find that number.”

  Brent frowned. I thought he was going to tell me to butt out, but he didn’t say a thing.

  I should have been the one frowning. My cat was stretched out on his leg, her eyes closed in utter bliss, like Brent was her favorite person. Then I realized why Brent was frowning, and it wasn’t completely due to Dep’s claws. I admitted, “That doesn’t explain why, after
he killed Georgia, he came to Lois’s house, attacked her, and stole the pictures she took the day that Matthias Treetor went missing.”

  Brent laid a gentle hand on Dep’s back. “No, it doesn’t.”

  I suggested, “He would have thought that by killing Georgia, he had eliminated the only witness, right?”

  “You’d think so,” Brent answered.

  “So why would he go to a different part of town to search for photos that he thought belonged to the woman he had just killed?” Picturing our quick trip through Georgia’s house, I half-closed my eyes. “If he searched Georgia’s house for those pictures, he did it neatly. Nothing seemed out of place.” Except in the bathroom, where the spare roll of toilet paper trailed across the floor, and in the kitchen, where, in addition to Georgia’s body, there were signs of a break-in and a struggle.

  Lois sighed and tapped her fingers on her handwoven place mat.

  Brent remained quiet, observing her as if waiting for her to say something.

  I imitated his watchful silence.

  “Maybe . . .” Her voice cracked. “No, I can’t even think it.”

  “What?” Brent asked gently.

  “Maybe Georgia told the person who attacked her, before he . . . maybe she told him that we sometimes traded vehicles before I moved down to Madison.”

  I asked, “Who else would know about that?”

  Lois looked suddenly happier. “A lot of people. We never kept it a secret, and we drove all around Fallingbrook in each other’s cars.” The pleased look drained from her eyes. “If Georgia didn’t tell her murderer about us trading cars, he found out about it later on Monday, from someone else. It’s horrible! It should have been me.”

  “It shouldn’t have been anyone,” Brent said, and I could tell he was thinking that if he had caught Matthias’s murderer, he might have prevented Georgia’s death. And maybe he was remembering the night when his best friend was killed and he was only grazed.

  I wanted to remind Brent how hard he and Alec had worked to solve Matthias’s murder. Knowing Brent, he had never stopped trying to tease out a solution to the case. But I only said, “Lois, even with your sheers closed, the painting that was hanging over your couch yesterday was noticeable. Anyone could have seen it. Maybe your attacker was walking past and recognized the scene, and he came in hoping that the photographer he’d driven past that day lived in the house with the painting. He could have seen the photo albums from your porch. And then he broke in to search through those albums in case you still had the photo you based the painting on. But he heard you and ran outside to attack you so that you wouldn’t see him and be able to identify him later.”