He declined coffee. We both ate a couple of cookies, and then he received a text message and said he had to go.
I opened the front door. A car door slammed. Samantha, not in her EMT uniform, but wearing jeans, a sweater, and sneakers, ran up the walk to my porch. With her head down, probably so she could watch for cracks in the concrete that might trip her—an EMT would be teased forever by her colleagues if they had to take her to the hospital—she didn’t notice us on the porch until she was close to the top of the steps.
She didn’t jump, much. “Hey, Brent! Hi, Emily.”
“Come in, Samantha,” I said. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes. I know it’s late. I can only stay a minute. I just wanted to check on you. How’s the investigation going, Brent?”
“Well enough that I have to go. See you two.” He ran down the stairs and turned left, toward downtown Fallingbrook. I wondered if he’d walked from the police station or, for some reason—Lois’s protection, maybe—had purposely not parked near my house.
Samantha followed me inside. Like nearly everyone else except Lois, Samantha was taller than my five-foot-nothing. Shorter than our stately friend Misty, Samantha was solid muscle. She worked out regularly because, as she told it, she was totally scared that she might accidentally drop a patient on his head. She looked like a rosy-cheeked Victorian picture of health, but she hated her round face, especially the cheeks. She said they made her resemble a chipmunk, to which Misty and I always replied, “That’s a stretch.” And then Misty and I always elbowed each other and giggled. Samantha wasn’t as elegantly beautiful as Misty, but she was very pretty, and she didn’t look fragile enough to break, like I did. The three of us together often attracted attention, maybe because we were often laughing too hard to walk or talk. That evening, Samantha’s glossy brown hair was streaked with brilliant ruby stripes.
“I like the red,” I told her.
“I’m certain that it cheers and distracts my patients better than last week’s cobalt. So!” Humor shined from her dark brown eyes. “When were you going to tell me about you and Brent?”
“There’s nothing to tell. Georgia Treetor was a frequent customer at Deputy Donut, and her best friend, Lois Unterlaw, was here for dinner tonight. Lois brought some evidence—possible evidence—that might pertain to Georgia’s murder. Brent’s the lead detective on the case, so he came over and picked up the possible evidence. But come back to the kitchen. I still have some cookies from Cookies and Bakies.”
“Yum.” She followed me through the living room and dining room. “Is Lois Unterlaw related to Randy Unterlaw? Remember him?”
“Lois is his great-aunt.”
“I haven’t seen him in a while, which could be surprising. When we were in high school, didn’t he regularly need an ambulance or cause someone else to need one?”
“He was in Deputy Donut today. He seems to have become a normal, law-abiding citizen. He was hanging out with Scott Ritsorf and Oliver Rossimer.”
“He must have had a personality transplant. Remember our crushes on Oliver Rossimer? He’s still gorgeous.”
“All three of them are.”
“I think I chose the wrong profession. The way to a man’s heart is not through IV drips.”
“It could be, if you saved his life.”
She batted her extravagantly long and curly eyelashes. “I can hardly wait. Meantime, you’re serving delicious donuts and coffee to gorgeous guys, day in and day out.”
“And to make things worse, I’m not even interested.”
She tilted her head. “Uh-huh.”
“Who doesn’t like eye candy?”
In the kitchen, she noticed that I was putting only one place setting into the dishwasher. “I thought you said that Randy’s great-aunt ate with you.”
“She did. After we were done, she made me feed Brent. Here, help me finish these cookies.”
“You could do worse than Brent.”
“You’re welcome to him.”
“Me?” She made a dramatic gesture, one hand to her heart and the back of the other hand against her forehead. “My heart will always belong to Oliver.”
She didn’t stay long. Both of us needed to get up early in the morning. Telling me to be careful, especially around Randy, she left.
Chapter 15
Tom hummed while he rolled out dough with his favorite rolling pin, an oversized marble one. We’d been in Deputy Donut’s kitchen for over a half hour. Thanks to our preparations the day before, we’d already made dozens of donuts and decorated them with frostings, glazes, sprinkles, coconut, and mini chocolate chips.
It was almost seven. Breathing in the fragrances of fresh coffee and warm donuts, I unlocked the front door and then went to the back of our neatly arranged dining area so I could peek through the window into our office. Blinking, Dep stood up. I couldn’t help smiling. She looked warm, sleepy, and adorably cuddly.
Behind me, the front door opened. Dep fluffed up into the perfect vision of a fierce and intimidating kitty cat. Who had caused that reaction?
I whipped around.
It was Misty.
How strange. When Misty came in, Dep usually leaned against the office window as if trying to get closer to her.
Then I saw what must have confused Dep. The defeated expression on Misty’s china doll face made her almost unrecognizable. Her uniform was crisp and her hair was neatly tied back, but her shoulders were tense, her eyes were grim, and her smile was strained. Setting her police-issue boots down hard with each step, she strode to me. “Brent’s been demoted,” she said.
“Demoted!” I couldn’t help sounding shocked.
“He’s no longer the lead detective on the case.”
I tilted my head, undoubtedly dislodging my Deputy Donut hat. “The . . . Georgia Treetor case?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
Misty just watched me. Dep’s fur had settled down to almost normal. She gently pawed at the glass, opened her mouth, and let out a plaintive meow.
I asked in a voice so small it almost squeaked, “Because Brent’s former partner’s widow is the person who found Georgia’s body?”
Misty still didn’t speak. She was obviously waiting for me to say more.
“And she left her fingerprints where she shouldn’t have? I mean I left my fingerprints where I shouldn’t have.”
Misty scrunched her mouth to one side.
I again apologized for moving that doll.
“It’s not that, entirely.” Misty’s voice was soft with compassion. “The chief called in the state DCI to help.”
That made sense, I guessed. The Wisconsin Division of Criminal Investigation undoubtedly had more resources for investigating homicides than local police forces had, but the Fallingbrook police department had its own detectives. Maybe I was biased, but Brent was at least as good as anyone in the DCI, and probably better. He had investigated Georgia’s son’s murder. He understood the web of relationships between the Treetors and their friends, family, associates, and possible enemies. However, calling in the DCI for serious crimes in Wisconsin was not unusual, and a voice in my head reminded me that Matthias’s murder was still unsolved. I asked Misty, “What does Brent think about it?”
“You know him. Poker face, saying it’s totally normal, which it is, but I’d be frustrated and seething.” She obviously tried to control a teasing smile. “I talked to Samantha last night.”
I settled my Deputy Donut hat more firmly on my head. “And she told you that she saw Brent leaving my place. He had come over to pick up some evidence. That’s all.”
“And had dinner with you?”
“Not with me and Lois. After. Lois fed him at her place the night before, too. Lois likes to feed people.”
Misty became serious again, almost forbidding. “You’ll be careful around her?”
“Sure. Not that it’s necessary.”
“It is. You’ve known her since Monday, right? And this is Thursday. Fou
r days.”
“She and Georgia were friends.”
“Did you ever hear that from Georgia?”
She had a point. I winced. “I don’t remember Georgia ever mentioning her.”
“And Lois had a key to Georgia’s house, right?”
I held up a cautionary finger. “The murderer broke into Georgia’s house.”
“We can’t be certain. Even if we were, it doesn’t prove that Lois wasn’t the murderer.”
“Someone attacked Lois later that night.”
“So she said. While I was asleep in your yard. And no one witnessed the attack.”
“Attackers generally prefer to do their attacking when there are no witnesses.”
She ignored my sarcasm. “What did you hear that night?”
“A tiny call for help, more like a gasp.”
“No thumps or thuds?”
“No. You were snoring.”
Misty gave me a haughty look, as if she were peering over half-glasses, a look she probably gave drivers who claimed they’d been under the limit after she’d clocked them at twenty miles over.
I quickly added, “Dep was doing some insistent meowing, though, and you know how loud she can be.”
A distinct mew came from the other side of the glass.
Misty smiled at the cat. “We weren’t asking your opinion, Dep.” She turned back to me. “I wish you’d gotten me up when you heard that call for help.”
“I do, too. Too bad Dep can’t tell us what happened. She was probably crouching in her secret passageway, watching everything.”
Misty gave Dep a thumbs-up, but she had a warning for me. “Even if Lois didn’t murder Georgia, she might have said something that led one of her friends or relatives to Georgia.”
“You mean Randy Unterlaw. Do you know when he left Fallingbrook and when he came back? Could he have left town before Matthias was murdered, and come back after Georgia was murdered? And he wasn’t here at the time of either murder?”
“I’m afraid not. He left Fallingbrook during the week after Matthias went missing, but before his body was found, and returned about a week before Georgia was killed. Why are you trying to exonerate Randy? You’re the one whose fingerprints were found at the scene.”
“I didn’t murder anyone. I don’t need to be exonerated.”
“Innocent people are sometimes convicted.”
“I have an ironclad alibi for Matthias’s murder. I was working that afternoon when he was in his store. I didn’t take long breaks, and I was the one who answered the call from Georgia after he closed his store for the evening and didn’t show up at that preseason meeting for potential hockey players and their parents. If no one else remembers that, 911 should have records.” Should. I wondered how long they kept recordings and logs of calls and, if they still had them, if they could retrieve them.
Misty hooked her thumbs in her belt. “Okay, I’ll play devil’s advocate. Where were you Monday morning?”
“Here, from six thirty on.”
“What about before?”
“Before Dep and I walked over here? Home alone.”
“Did anyone see you or talk to you at home or on the way over here?”
“No. Well, maybe someone saw us walking here between six twenty and six thirty, but I wouldn’t know who.”
“See?” She looked kind, but also concerned. I would be, also, if she or Samantha were possibly in trouble.
“Not really. Can you think of a good reason for me to do away with one of my best customers? Or a motive for Randy?”
“No, other than Randy was known for his violent temper way back when. Remember?”
“Yes. He seems very nice now.”
“Huh. ‘Seems.’ ” She glanced at our menu board. “I see you’re featuring a medium roast from India today. Can I have a large to take out?” She pointed at the top shelf of our display case. “And two of those fudge donuts with fudge drizzle. I need chocolate to cheer me up. Know why?”
“Dep scared you by puffing herself up?”
“No. Guess which detective from the DCI has been parachuted in over Brent’s head.”
I nearly dropped an entire tray of donuts. “Uh-oh. Yvonne Passenmath?” Misty and I had been appalled a couple of years before when the DCI hired Yvonne Passenmath as a special agent. It was a relief that the woman was no longer on the Fallingbrook police force, but in our opinion, she wasn’t clever enough to be a detective, especially on an elite team.
“’Fraid so.”
“And she probably still hates both Tom and me.”
“It wasn’t your fault that Alec chose to date you instead of an unpleasant policewoman five years his senior. And her charges about Tom being biased and unfair when he promoted Brent and Alec instead of her were unfounded. Her police work was about as sloppy as her uniform always was. Brent and Alec deserved the promotion.”
“And if I hadn’t gone along with Lois and the Knitpickers on Monday, and if I hadn’t tampered with the scene, Brent would probably still be the lead on the case.”
“Maybe.” Glancing toward Tom in the kitchen behind the half wall, she leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “Our new chief must have political aspirations. I suspect that he doesn’t want to fail at solving this. He’s spinning his decision to bring in the DCI to make it look like he’s doing the only thing that a conscientious police chief can do. And then, if agents from the DCI don’t catch the murderer, no one can blame him. Very convenient.” It was the first time I’d ever heard her criticize her boss. But then, until Tom retired, Tom had been her boss, and everyone, police officers and citizens alike, had loved Tom and found him to be fair. Everybody, that is, besides Yvonne Passenmath.
“Someone had better catch the murderer, if they’re suspecting me!” I said it in a joking tone. No one could possibly suspect me of murder.
Right. My fingerprints alone weren’t enough, but Yvonne Passenmath would probably love making my life difficult as punishment for “stealing” Alec from her. Alec had not been the least bit interested in Yvonne. And anyone would agree that no reasonable person could accuse Tom or me of the murder merely because our donuts and box were at the scene.
Misty was watching my face as if figuring out what I was thinking. “The police will catch the murderer, even if Brent and I and a few of our friends have to give Yvonne answers that she’ll happily take credit for.” Misty lowered her eyebrows into an exaggerated frown. “By ‘our friends’ I mean our friends in the police department. That fuzzy donut on your hat does not entitle you to investigate murders.”
I tried to keep a straight face but ended up laughing. “Don’t worry. I’m already in enough trouble for interfering with the scene. I’ll stay away.”
But later, when Lois came into Deputy Donut with the Knitpickers, I noticed that she looked drawn and worried. There had to be something that the two of us could do to prove that neither Randy nor I was a murderer, something entirely safe, like look at old photos. But we’d already done that.
Deputy Donut quickly filled up. Was it my imagination, or were some of the police officers paying me more attention than usual? I dashed around, bringing them coffee, donuts, and gooey, delicious cinnamon rolls. The officers were all friendly, as if they were going out of their way to show that I had their support. Some of them left larger than usual tips. A cynical person might suspect they were trying to be buddy-buddy so that I would confide in them, like confess to a murder. But I had nothing to confess, and I wasn’t cynical.
I picked up a fresh carafe of our house blend and was about to go around the tables refilling coffee mugs when a skinny woman opened the front door just enough to slip into the shop. She took one look at the police officers at a nearby table and edged backward, as if she’d changed her mind about coming inside. Then she apparently spotted me behind the counter and stared for a second. Straightening her back slightly, although her shoulders were still rolled forward as if she planned to duck out of sight at any moment, she walked toward me
. I’d seen that gait recently. She seemed to let only the outer edges of the soles of her ballet slippers touch the floor. She also appeared to be doing some deep breathing, as if she needed extra oxygen to give herself courage to approach me. She wrapped her arms around her middle. Even though she was wearing a baggy turquoise T-shirt instead of a neatly fitted shell pink wraparound top over her black yoga pants, I recognized her.
The evening we’d found Georgia’s body, this woman had come across the street and asked us if anything had happened to Georgia.
Chapter 16
Wraith-like, as if she wished she could be invisible, Georgia’s neighbor slipped between tables and chairs to the counter. She bent toward me and murmured, “I need to tell you something about Monday morning.”
I wanted to signal some of the police officers to come listen to what she had to say, but I’d seen her avoid them. I set the carafe on the marble counter. “Okay.”
She whispered, “When I got up that morning, there was another car in you-know-who’s driveway, sort of like hers—small, old, and the color was sort of grayish, at least by streetlight. It was very early, and I wasn’t quite awake.” She glanced over her shoulder, turned back to me, and whispered, “I wondered if you-know-who had a boyfriend stay over. Or maybe a doctor was making a house call. And then when I finished my morning workout, I happened to look out again, and the car was gone.”
“What time was this?”
“My alarm went off at five, so it was a little after, and then he was gone by about five forty-five. The sky was just beginning to get light.”
“He?”
She tightened her arms around the baggy T-shirt. “I meant the car was gone.”
“Did you see the driver? Know for sure that it was a man?”
“I might have seen a shadowy form near her trash can when I first looked out, but I wasn’t sure.”
Survival of the Fritters Page 12
