“I moved the painting out of sight too late,” she said. “I guess I knew that.”
Brent handed Dep to me and stood. “May I see the painting? And the photo albums?”
Lois pressed three fingers against her mouth for a second, and then clamped her hands together at her waist. “Let me pull the drapes in the living room. I don’t want whoever threatened me to see me talking to a policeman.”
“I’m not in uniform.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said.
Brent stared at me, wordlessly demanding an explanation.
“It’s not like Fallingbrook’s a huge place. Lots of people must know who you are.” I didn’t add and you can’t help looking like a cop. He would say I thought that only because I knew he was. True, but that wasn’t all. He carried himself with the authority of someone used to getting things done the way he thought they should be done.
Lois called from the living room, “Okay, you two can come in now.”
Brent pulled a phone from his pocket. “Go ahead, Em. I’ll be there in a minute.”
In the living room, Lois opened the photo album to the ravaged pages and laid it on the couch. I could hear Brent’s voice in the kitchen, but not what he was saying.
He strode in. “Lois, someone’s going to keep their eyes on your house tonight after I leave. But don’t be afraid to call 911 if anything seems the least bit off.”
“Or scream out your back window for me,” I suggested.
“Just call 911, Lois.” Brent examined the album that Lois had opened. “I’d like to find the photos that match these torn bits. Preferably in someone’s possession.”
Wouldn’t we all.
Using his phone to shoot pictures of the nearly bare pages, Brent asked us, “Did either of you tell anyone else about Lois’s attack?”
I told him, “I didn’t.”
“No way!” Lois exclaimed with great vigor. “It’s too embarrassing. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”
Brent eyed her. “Don’t blame yourself, Lois. You were the victim. You did not bring it upon yourself. Both of you, please continue keeping the assault and the theft of the photos secret. Let’s assume that threat was real. Besides, if the thief knows we’re looking for the photos, he or she might make certain that we never find them. Please don’t tell anyone, not even your great-nephew, Lois.”
“I won’t. Randy would worry and coddle me like I was an invalid.”
Brent glanced at the photo album. “Do you have the photos’ original digital files, Lois?”
“Emily asked me the same thing.” She threw me a warning look as if she were afraid I would blab about frilly lingerie and disappointing suitors. “I don’t know. I have more boxes to unpack. If I find the files, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, you’ll probably produce a search warrant and turn my house upside down.”
“We wouldn’t turn your entire house upside down. We’d only commandeer your computer and all of your unpacked boxes.”
“Good luck with that.” Apparently, she’d already caught on to his poker-faced sense of humor. She started toward the stairs. “I’ll get the painting.”
“We’ll come up,” Brent said.
She looked down from the second step. “It’s a mess. Unpacked boxes . . .”
Brent gestured for me to go ahead of him. “Messes don’t bother me.”
Brushing one hand along the polished, satiny railing, I climbed the stairs. “You just moved in, Lois. You can’t be expected to have everything unpacked yet.”
We stopped at the top. “Mess?” Brent repeated. “Most people’s houses aren’t this neat, even if they’ve lived in them for years.”
“Give me time.” She showed us into the front bedroom, now an artist’s studio.
Brent took a deep breath. “My grandfather was an artist. I love the smell of linseed oil.”
Lois smiled. “Me, too. It’s probably addictive. Maybe even a controlled substance.” She raised her chin as if challenging Brent.
He merely grinned down at her. I wasn’t surprised that he understood her humor.
I pointed to about twenty cartons stacked neatly along one wall. “Are those the only cartons you have left to unpack?”
Lois turned her mouth down in synthetic regret. “I wish! The basement’s almost full of boxes. I didn’t do the world’s greatest job of labeling them.”
So much for quickly checking for labels like LINGERIE and THUMB DRIVE....
Although there were many paintings on the walls and leaning on furniture and on other paintings, Brent zeroed in on the one of the river valley. He moved it to an easel under a strong light. He seemed particularly interested in the bottom left corner. Finally, he focused on Lois. “How closely did you copy the photograph?”
“I’m . . . not sure. I painted that nearly five years ago, and I used several photos. You’ve been there. Does it look like the valley where Matthias was found?”
“Yes.” He pointed at a dark splotch deep in the valley, near the river. “Could this black thing be part of the car you saw?”
She peered at it. “I don’t know. I didn’t see where the car came from. Suddenly it was chugging up the hill toward me, and it was close. I was parked on the shoulder of—County Road G, I think.”
He nodded and pointed at the bottom left corner of the painting. “The track winds through trees, so you wouldn’t have seen the vehicle part of the time it was heading uphill, but maybe the photo caught a bit of black paint that looks like a shadow here.” He made a rueful face. “Or maybe it really was a shadow.”
I pointed. “Is the black splotch near where Matthias was found?”
Brent’s wave took in the entire painting. “All of it’s near where he was found.”
We trooped downstairs. Brent peered through the peephole. “Good. An officer is parked across the street.”
Lois gasped, “No!”
“Plainclothes. Unmarked vehicle. And by ‘unmarked’ I don’t mean it’s one of those cruisers with markings that show up when lights shine on them. It’s just a regular car with no markings.” He shot me one of his amiable grins. “And good brakes, new tires, and a powerful engine. Alec would have approved. I’ll walk you home, Em.”
“Didn’t you drive?”
“Did you?”
Never expect a cop to give a direct answer. “Dep and I walked.” I fastened her halter around her and attached her leash.
Lois opened the door. I showed Brent the splintered doorjamb. This time, Lois said nothing about the damage being there when she moved in.
Brent told her, “Try not to touch anything your attacker might have touched. I’ll bring the fingerprint tech over here tomorrow morning, first thing, okay?”
“I suppose.” She smirked. “I won’t wash the cutlery and glass you were using.”
“Okay.” His voice was totally flat. But he was smiling.
Lois said, “Emily, if I’m late tomorrow morning, tell the Knitpickers not to worry.”
“Nitpickers?” Brent asked.
“ ‘Knit’ with a K,” Lois explained. “Haven’t you ever been in Emily’s donut shop in the mornings and seen the group of women knitting beside one of the front windows?”
The tops of Brent’s ears reddened. “Um, no.”
Lois demanded, “You haven’t noticed or you haven’t been there?”
The tips of my ears were becoming hot. I had a very good guess about why Brent never went to Deputy Donut. He probably thought that if the shop didn’t succeed, I would go back to being a 911 operator. But I would never return to 911. And one person boycotting Deputy Donut was not going to put us out of business, either. Tom and I were doing well. Besides, I loved working there. I thought Tom did, too, but part of Tom’s motivation could have been to keep me safe, for the sake of his late son.
Brent wouldn’t have seen my reddening ears. He seemed to be avoiding looking in my direction, “I’ve never been there.”
Lois tilted her head. “I’ve only been there two
mornings, but I gathered that the entire police department goes in and out of that shop, not all together, but in twos and threes. I don’t know whether to feel safe or raise my hands and confess to crimes I’ve never heard of. You have to stop by Emily’s shop, um . . . Detective.”
“Call me Brent.”
“Brent. Emily and Chief Westhill make the best donuts in the whole world.”
“I know. I remember her donuts from before she and Tom opened that shop.”
“And from while Alec was alive.” I was feeling more comfortable speaking of Alec to Brent now that he’d mentioned Alec and his approval of powerful cars. I told Lois, “Alec liked making donuts. He came up with many of the flavor combinations we’re using.”
My comment failed to put a stop to Lois’s interrogation. She thrust her face up toward Brent’s. “So. You know how good their donuts are. Why don’t you drop in?”
I tried again. “I suspect Brent doesn’t take many breaks. Thanks for dinner, Lois.”
Brent thanked her, too.
She aimed a forefinger toward him. “You work too hard. You’ll burn out. You should take breaks. And stop missing meals.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He followed me onto her porch.
Chapter 11
Lois hadn’t turned on her porch light, probably because she didn’t want anyone to see a detective leaving her house. Brent and I stood outside her closed front door until the lock hit home. Brent gave me a satisfied nod, and we started down the porch steps.
I tried not to be obvious as I glanced at cars parked along the street. Underneath the quarter moon and the streetlamps, leafy shadows danced over everything, and I couldn’t make out anyone inside the vehicles. I also couldn’t tell which one was the completely unmarked car. I hoped that the person who had attacked Lois was not around, and that if he was, he was no better at recognizing new tires in the dark than I was. Maybe he—or she—would never venture anywhere near Lois or this street again.
I looked up at Brent. “Georgia’s doorjamb was splintered much like Lois’s was. And Lois’s front door was gaping open. So was her back door. And Georgia’s back door was unlatched.”
“You’re a good witness. The report you gave us about Ms. Treetor’s house meshed with what we observed there.”
“Thanks, but I wonder if I missed something.” I spoke slowly, thinking it through. “There was only one breakfast plate on Georgia’s kitchen table, but she still had four of the six donuts she bought from me the Friday before. Is there any chance she had a breakfast guest? Did you check her calendar, the one on her computer or phone? Or maybe she carried a paper one.”
“We did, and although she made notes of many appointments and meetings and the dates she’d promised repair work on dolls, she appeared to have nothing scheduled at breakfast on Monday morning.”
“Not even a name?”
“No.”
“And they’re sure she died Monday, not Saturday or Sunday?”
“Yes.”
Silent except for our quiet footsteps, we passed several houses.
“Do you believe Lois?” Brent asked me. “About not knowing who hit her?”
“I didn’t last night when she was pretending she merely lost her balance and fell, but tonight, I thought she was telling the truth. Did you?”
“Why didn’t you call the police last night?”
“I didn’t understand how closely the attack on her could have been connected to Georgia’s death. And Matthias’s. It was only shortly before you called this evening that she told me about seeing a car she thought she recognized the night Matthias disappeared.” For late August, the evening was surprisingly warm. The air felt soft on my face. “And Lois asked me not to call. She was sure she’d be safer if we didn’t call the police.”
“Mmp.”
“I managed to wear down her resistance after she told me about seeing that car.”
“Do you know her great-nephew?”
“I knew who he was in high school, but I doubt that I ever said more than about ten words to him. He was a couple years ahead of me.”
Brent muttered, “And maybe light-years behind.”
“What? Oh. He did seem to be in trouble a lot of the time. I haven’t seen him for years, though. Maybe he’s grown out of picking fights. Lois seems very fond of him.”
“Mmp.”
Conversing with a donut might have been as enlightening.
We turned the corner and were on my block before he spoke again. “What’s this about a secret passageway?”
I explained about the cat-sized tunnel, and Lois’s and my conjectures about why it was built.
“Can you show it to me sometime in daylight?”
“Sure. It could come in handy if Lois and I wanted to pass illicit objects back and forth to each other.”
“Mmp.” This time I heard a smile in the comment. Perhaps it rated as progress.
He came right up onto my porch with Dep and me. Since I hadn’t left a light on, the porch was dark under its sheltering roof. Brent shined a light on the door while I unlocked it. Dep pranced inside. I was nearly ready to close the door, leaving Brent on the porch, when he spoke again. “Em?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
“You, too.”
“I mean it.” Did he think I didn’t? “Your new neighbor’s friend was murdered and your neighbor was attacked. Being around her could be dangerous.”
“I—”
He interrupted me by holding up one hand as if he were back in the days of being a traffic cop, if he ever was. “I know. You think you can and should protect her. You probably can’t and you definitely shouldn’t try.”
“I—”
“Just be careful, Em. For Alec’s sake.”
Heat rushed to my face. “Don’t.” I shook my head and gazed sightlessly toward my feet.
I was being rude.
Contrite, I looked up into Brent’s eyes again. There was nothing resembling a smile on his face, and he looked totally worn-out. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“S’okay. Call me if you think of anything else or need help. Good night, Em.”
“Thanks for coming so quickly to hear what we had to tell you.”
“Thanks for calling.”
I backed inside, threw the dead bolt, and listened to his barely audible footsteps going down the porch stairs. I crouched and let Dep out of her halter. “What did you think of all that, Dep?”
“Mmp,” she said.
“No. Not you, too, you little traitor.” I picked her up and kissed her cute black, cream, and ginger forehead.
“Me-ow!” I understood that demand. It meant, Put me down and go into the kitchen and feed me.
I obeyed.
Leaving her contemplating her bowl as if she couldn’t decide whether or not to eat, after all, I turned out the kitchen lights and went upstairs.
In my bedroom, I glanced at the mirror. My curls were rowdy and my eyes, although as bright blue as ever, looked almost as tired as Brent’s. I mumbled, “Mmp.”
I wasn’t as good at imitating Brent as Dep was.
After the previous night’s fractured sleep, I drifted off immediately and didn’t hear a thing until the alarm went off at five. At Deputy Donut, I reminded myself, I won’t be alone. I’ll be surrounded by friends and customers. I hopped out of bed.
Lois showed up only about an hour late for the morning get-together of the Knitpickers. Before she sat down, she whispered to me, “Has that detective—Brent—been in here yet this morning?”
“No. I thought he was going to be at your place.”
“He left five minutes before I did, and I thought he might have come here.”
“Nope.”
She leaned closer. “Is he married?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why are you rolling your eyes like that?”
“He . . .” I smoothed the tuck in my apron over the strings tied at my waist. “He’s a ladies’ man. I can’t imag
ine him settling down.”
“Except maybe with you.”
The tips of my ears were getting hot again. “I’m not . . .” I almost said ready. “I’m not interested.” Lois, of all people, should understand.
Apparently, she didn’t, or she was being purposely obtuse. “You don’t notice the way he looks at you?”
What I was noticing was that the other Knitpickers had quieted and were watching us, obviously trying to eavesdrop. “Ladies’ man,” I whispered. “And now he has you under his spell, too.” Everyone was betraying me. First my cat, and now Lois. I raised my voice to a normal speaking tone. “What can I get you?”
She winked. “Not a man.”
I rolled my eyes again.
“What’s your special coffee today?”
“Kona, from Hawaii, a light roast. It tastes like freshly ground coffee smells. Don’t tell anyone, but it might be my favorite.”
“I’ll try it. And what donut do you suggest?”
I glanced back into the kitchen. Tom was dipping donuts in frosting. “Tom’s making a new flavor—penuche donuts.”
“That sounds swoon-worthy.”
Apparently, it was. When the other Knitpickers saw her expression of nearly terminal ecstasy when she bit into the donut, they ordered them, too.
Police officers must have praised the new donuts when they went back to the station. Misty came in after lunch and bought a dozen of the rich brown-sugar confections for colleagues who didn’t have time for an afternoon break. She also bought six unraised cake donuts dusted with nutmeg and confectioners’ sugar. “Brent asked for these.” She studied my face.
Although I had nothing to hide, I made certain there were no thoughts or emotions on my face that anyone could read, not even a best friend. Not even a best friend who was a cop. “He interviewed my new neighbor last night while I was visiting her.”
Survival of the Fritters Page 8
