“New neighbor?”
“Lois. She’s the one who was driving the van Monday night, the latest member of the Knitpickers.”
“Georgia Treetor’s long-lost friend? Petite woman with a whole bunch of white hair and a scared look on her face?”
“I didn’t notice the scared look.”
“You’re not a police officer.”
“Don’t boast. Anyway, while Brent was at Lois’s place, she was campaigning for him to eat donuts.”
“It must have worked,” Misty said.
“Or it has something to do with his investigation. The donuts in Georgia’s kitchen Monday afternoon were unraised cake donuts dusted with nutmeg and confectioners’ sugar.”
“Those donuts.” She hitched up her belt. About a ton of tools and weapons were attached to it. “Do you remember her buying them?”
“Yes. She bought six of them Friday before she left at noon. She usually buys—bought—half a dozen donuts on Fridays for her weekend breakfasts. She said it was a long drive back into town, and our donuts stayed fresh.”
“It’s only about five miles. Did you put the six donuts she bought on Friday in a box?”
“Yes.”
“Can you think of anyone else who bought at least four donuts like that on Friday, and had them boxed?”
“No. But let’s ask Tom and look at Friday’s receipts.”
Tom didn’t remember anyone else buying at least four of those donuts, either, and the only record we had was for the six donuts that Georgia had bought at noon on Friday. We checked the rest of the week’s receipts, too. I concluded, “It seems that Georgia bought the donuts that were found in her house.”
She picked up her boxes and headed toward the front of Deputy Donut. “I’ll tell Brent. If you think of anything else, call him?”
“Sure.” I helped her with the door. “Or you.”
“Not me. Brent.” She gave me a sly look. Probably knowing how close I was to childishly sticking out my tongue at her, she laughed and then strode away with her donuts.
Scott and Oliver came in for their afternoon break and sat at a table together. Dep stared at them for a second and then went back to burnishing a paw. Scott and Oliver both ordered chocolate donuts filled with marzipan cream, shredded coconut, and chopped dried cherries. Scott, forever skinny, ordered two of them.
Another man about their age came in. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. His gaze locked on me. He walked to the counter and squeezed between two barstools. “Emily?”
I recognized his voice.
Randy Unterlaw had lost that uncaring bad-boy attitude, and there were flecks of gray in his dark brown hair, but he was still great looking—tanned, a smile lurking in his dark eyes, and noticeable bodybuilder muscles under his white dress shirt. When did bad boys start wearing dress shirts?
Maybe when they wanted to cover poorly done tattoos on their wrists. I remembered that tattoo. According to rumors, he’d inked it himself in junior high, with a needle and an ink pad, and it had certainly looked that way. In those days, the tattoo had been a word, all capital letters, each one with a period after it: B.A.D. I wondered if he’d added to it since. Whatever, he wasn’t about to show it off. He pulled his sleeve down and covered all but the period after the D. His aftershave or cologne was a little strong and reminded me of mouthwash. I preferred the fragrance of our donuts, which, with him nearby, I could barely smell.
“You probably don’t remember me.” He sounded almost apologetic. “You’ve been kind to my great-aunt, and I came to thank you.”
“She was here earlier. And I do remember you, from high school.”
He still had a wicked smile. “You remember terrible things, then. I was only good at getting into trouble.” If he hadn’t reformed, he was playing the part well, white shirt, men’s fragrance, and all. He flicked a glance toward the kitchen, and the smile was gone. “I heard about your husband, Chief Westhill’s son. It must be hard.”
I didn’t flinch. “It is.” Since his high school days, Randy had learned how to look sympathetic.
He drummed his fingers on the counter. “The house you and your husband bought—bet you didn’t know that I was renting it at the time.”
“No, I didn’t.” He’d kept it neat and clean. “Sorry for dislodging you.”
“No problem. And now Great-Aunt Lois has its twin. It’s sort of like coming home. A lot like. I’ve been out west until recently.” He tugged his sleeve down again. “Wrangling horses at a dude ranch in Wyoming.”
He was making me wistful. “I hear that’s a beautiful area.”
“Absolutely.”
“And a dude ranch must be fun.”
“Totally.” Those deep brown eyes twinkled, and I could easily imagine all of the dude ranch’s female visitors, from eight to eighty-eight, developing galloping crushes on him.
“Emily?” I hadn’t heard Tom come up behind me. “Can you have a look at the mixer?” He asked Randy, “What can I get you?”
I turned toward the kitchen. In her special kitty-cat room, Dep was about twice her normal size, and glaring at Randy. My heart made a series of odd thumps and bumps. Dep was demonstrating a hefty dislike for Randy. Dep had been nearby when someone clobbered Lois. Did Dep know that Randy had hurt the “mother” who fed her sardines and called her Tiger?
Tom delivered an Americano and plain unraised donut to Randy, who was sitting with Scott and Oliver at their table.
Tom returned to the kitchen. “The mixer’s fine,” I told him.
He muttered, “That Unterlaw kid was always trouble. Had to arrest him a few times back in the day. I don’t think it’s a well-kept secret, but you should know that he and another boy, a kid whose father owned a gas station, put each other in the hospital when they decided that fists weren’t enough and went at each other with pocketknives. Far’s I could tell, Randy was the one with the hair-trigger temper, the one who started the fights. Just wanted to warn you.”
“Thanks, Tom. I hadn’t heard the details, but I remember him. He seems different now.” Oliver and Scott were talking to him like they were all old buddies.
Tom grunted.
“The newest Knitpicker, Lois Unterlaw, is Randy’s great-aunt. She seems very fond of him. She just moved into the house behind mine.”
“I don’t have to warn you to be careful,” Tom said. “I know you will be.”
I laughed. “And I don’t have to tell you to be manipulative. I know you are.”
He grinned. “Am I that transparent?”
“Not all the time.”
He looked toward the door and frowned. “And there’s another one to be careful around.”
Chapter 12
The rotund blonde didn’t look particularly dangerous. Her shapeless dress was several sizes too big and looked like she might have made it herself from blue denim, with frills of golden lace around the neck and elbow-length sleeves. Her most noticeable feature was her scowl, which marred an otherwise pretty face with a peaches and cream complexion.
Her gaze went from table to table, as if she was looking for someone in particular.
“Why did you say we should be careful around her?” I asked Tom.
“Litigious.” He concentrated on golden oil shimmering in the fryer in front of him. “Causes trouble.”
“Who is she?”
“Imagine her seven years younger and about two hundred pounds lighter.”
“I can’t.”
“Does the name ‘Honey’ ring a bell?”
Honey, Honey, Honey . . . Finally, it dawned on me. “Honey Bellaire, Fallingbrook’s most notorious Bridezilla?”
But Tom had turned away and was heading toward our industrial-sized stainless-steel fridge. It was as if he didn’t want Honey to see him. She took her time about choosing a table, and then she sat facing the door. Because the street was more interesting than the kitchen? Or because she hadn’t found the person she was looking for and wanted to watch the d
oor? Maybe, despite Tom’s turning his back, she knew he was Fallingbrook’s former police chief, and she was hoping he wouldn’t notice her.
It was no wonder I hadn’t recognized her. About six and a half years ago, she had been about a hundred (not two hundred as Tom had said—he wasn’t unobservant, but he did like to exaggerate) pounds lighter and about to marry the man of her dreams. Then, the day before her wedding, she’d become seriously ill and had been hospitalized after eating lunch meat she’d bought at Matthias Treetor’s grocery, Taste of Fallingbrook. She had postponed the wedding until she could rent the same hall, an entire year later. Unfortunately, during that year, she outgrew her dress. Meanwhile, the man of Honey’s dreams found a new dream girl, but neglected to tell Honey. He simply did not show up at the rescheduled wedding.
Gossip had run rampant in Fallingbrook while she was planning those weddings. People found many of her Bridezilla antics hilarious, as long as they weren’t in the direct line of her ire over the lack of perfection in everything from her gowns (neither size had been shiny enough), to the flowers (she’d insisted on lilies of the valley in February), to the bows on the backs of the chairs (they had to be starched, unwrinkled, and whiter than white).
I’d never met her or talked to her, and there was no reason for her to know my name or that I’d been married to one of the detectives who had undoubtedly scrutinized her after Matthias was killed. She’d made no secret that the tainted meat had ruined her life, and she had continued to blame Matthias, even though it was announced early on that the meat packer was responsible for the food poisoning. Matthias had taken all of the meat from that packer off his shelves and had contacted everyone who had bought some to tell them not to eat it and to return it for a full refund.
Apparently, Honey hadn’t paid attention to him or to the frequent warnings on the news. No sensible person should have eaten any of the meat or blamed Matthias. But who said that Honey, aka Bridezilla, was sensible? She’d sued Matthias. She’d lost.
I went to her table. “What would you like?”
“Two unglazed cake donuts and a coffee.” Her voice had raspy edges. Her cologne was even more overpowering than Randy’s.
I tried to speak without breathing in very deeply. “What kind—”
Glaring, she interrupted me. “Unglazed cake.”
I tried again, politely. “And the coffee? Cappuccino, espresso, Americano? Our featured coffee today is Kona.”
“Coffee coffee. Nothing fancy and overpriced or foreign with a funny name.” She grabbed a sugar cube out of the cute Deputy Donut sugar bowl and popped it into her mouth.
I went behind the counter to the coffee machines and poured a mug of our house blend. I figured that the mild Colombian would meet her definition of “coffee coffee,” even though it had originated in a foreign country, while our Kona was grown in Hawaii. However, we did charge a premium for the Kona, so she might categorize it as fancy and overpriced. And maybe as having a funny name, besides.
Tom had told me to be careful around her. I wasn’t about to go anywhere alone with her, but I sort of hovered after I served her coffee and donuts. I was sure that Honey wouldn’t blurt out any murder confessions, but maybe she would say something that would give her away, and I could pass it on to Misty. Or, I supposed, to Brent.
Honey bit into one of the donuts. “It’s not very greasy.” From her tone and her frown, it was a complaint.
I acted like it wasn’t. “The secret is heating the oil to the correct temperature. If the oil isn’t hot enough, the donuts soak it up like sponges.”
She took another bite. “It’s not very sweet.”
Again, I pretended it was a compliment. “Good.”
She made a face like someone catching the scent of a startled skunk. “I can taste nutmeg.”
This time, I was sure it was not a compliment, but I didn’t apologize. “Most people like nutmeg in their plain unraised donuts.”
“That’s probably why I’m tired of it.”
“Did you like nutmeg once?”
“I guess.”
I persisted. “Did our donuts make you tired of it?”
“How could they? I’ve never been in here in my life, before today.”
“A friend could have brought you some.” Georgia, for instance.
“Is it true that Georgia Treetor used to come in here a lot?”
Had Georgia shared donuts with this peevish woman? “Yes, she was here most weekday mornings.”
“That woman!” Honey dumped three sugar cubes plus most of the contents of the Deputy Donut cream pitcher into her coffee. Stirring, she clanked the spoon against the mug. Bang, bang, bang. “I took a doll to her for a simple repair. Simple.” Bang, bang, bang. “All she had to do was sew up the side.” Honey ran a thumb and forefinger up the puckered seam of her dress. “That was all. But she took it upon herself to restuff the doll, too. I told her there was no way I was paying for that extra work, and she said she never thought of charging me for it, but you ask me, she would have doubled the price if I hadn’t said something about it.” Bang, bang, bang. If she hadn’t set the spoon down, I’d have been tempted to take it away from her. She put the mug to her lips. “Burning hot. You could scald someone. They could sue.”
Our coffee was never scalding, and she’d poured so much cream into hers that it couldn’t be more than lukewarm. Maybe I needed to carry an instant-read thermometer in my apron pocket. At times like this, I could whip it out and take the coffee’s temperature.
My own temperature was considering rising.
Honey stared toward the table that the Knitpickers occupied on weekday mornings. Six police officers were enjoying one another’s company there. They didn’t seem as carefree as they had before Georgia’s murder, but their camaraderie and mutual trust were obvious. Most of them were only drinking coffee, but a couple of the slimmer men had ordered donuts.
Honey swiveled her head to study the tables closest to her. “I heard that lots of cops hang out here. I don’t see many.” Six officers having a break at the same time in a town the size of Fallingbrook weren’t a lot? She crooked a finger, beckoning me closer. Standing, I wasn’t much taller than she was, seated, but I leaned down. She whispered, “Do you know if any of the men sitting near the front window are single?”
Two of them were, but their marital status was their business. “Sorry.”
She pointed at Scott, Oliver, and Randy. “How about those three hotties over there? Oh! I know who the tall one is—the fire chief!” She licked her lips. “Yum, yum, yum. Is he single?”
“I don’t know.” Actually, I did know. He was.
“Then how about the other two? It’s not like they’re short, except compared to the fire chief.”
Oliver was divorced, but for all I knew, he was dating someone, and Lois hadn’t said anything about Randy’s love life. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to spread tales about my customers. “I don’t know about them, either.”
“You should know.” Honey looked at my left ring finger. “Oh, you’re married. I guess it’s not important to you, then.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You should have a TV in here, to give people something to do.” Honey was the queen of shifting subjects.
I wanted to say that folks who visited coffee shops often wanted to talk to friends. However, Honey had arrived alone, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Not that she seemed particularly worried about hurting other people’s.
“Like, maybe there’s more news,” she said around a mouthful of donut. “Maybe they caught that doll doctor’s murderer. None of us can feel safe until they do.” The flesh of her neck rippled as she made an elaborate shudder. “I’m scared, even locked in my own apartment.”
I edged closer. “Do you feel like someone in particular is threatening you?”
She glowered at me. “Who knows? I live alone. That doll doctor lived alone. For all we know, someone’s out to get all the women in this town who liv
e alone.”
“I hope not!”
She eyed my wedding ring. “You don’t have to worry.”
“I don’t. What else can I get you?”
She waved a pudgy hand in dismissal and gulped down more of the “boiling” coffee.
In the kitchen, I quietly told Tom, “Honey complained that Georgia did too thorough a job repairing a doll, and would have charged too much if Honey hadn’t told her not to.”
Tom turned the corners of his mouth down in a way that showed he was about to say something sarcastic. “That woman’s brilliant. When there are murders, she lets everyone know the grudges she held against the deceased. She blamed the son for her own stupidity, eating lunch meat long after it had been recalled.”
“That’s kind of extreme.” I held up a finger like a TV lawyer about to make the final convicting (or acquitting) point. “Maybe it’s a ploy. A real murderer would never admit to such things. Maybe she’s the real murderer, trying to look naïve and innocent.”
“Maybe.” His tone implied that he thought it unlikely.
“She’s never been here before. Why today?”
“Why is everyone here today?” Waving a slotted spoon, Tom answered his own question. “When something happens, people like to unburden themselves, and our shop has become known as the place to gather and talk.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“You bet.”
“We’ll hear people’s secrets.”
“Who’s going to reveal their deepest secrets in a donut shop full of cops?”
He had a point.
Anyway, one of the six police officers at the front table was keeping his eyes on Honey. Apparently, Tom wasn’t the only one who had her on his radar as possibly being connected with the murders of Matthias and Georgia. Or maybe the officer was curious about the way Honey was gazing at his table. The six police officers sauntered out and turned left, toward police headquarters.
Scott waved at me and followed them. He was probably going back to the fire station. Randy and Oliver walked out together, planning, if I heard them correctly, a golf game.
Survival of the Fritters Page 9
