Survival of the Fritters

by Ginger Bolton

  “Where was the trash can?”

  “Beside the garage.”

  Lois and I had checked the other side of the house. I wondered if any of the Knitpickers had looked into the trash can. Probably not, if the lid was on. I’d reminded everyone not to touch anything. By now, investigators would have sifted through everything in and around Georgia’s house. I asked, “Man, or woman?”

  “I wasn’t sure if I saw a person, so I don’t know.” Was she shivering from cold or from something else? The coffee shop was nice and warm.

  “Did you tell the police officer, the tall blond woman, about the car and the shadowy figure?”

  “I didn’t think it was important, and besides, it slipped my mind.”

  Alec had taught me that multiple excuses could be a sign that the person giving them was not being entirely honest.

  I must have succeeded in keeping my skepticism from showing. She confided, “And then, last night, I told my husband about you-know-who’s death, and he said that when he backed out of our garage early Monday morning, he saw that extra car tear out of you-know-who’s driveway and race down the road. He said it was being driven too fast. He stayed back, and wasn’t following the car on purpose. Then, way ahead, he thought he saw it turn into the parking lot of the mall where his office is.” She smiled proudly and upgraded her voice to a murmur. “He’s a dentist.” She went back to a conspiratorial whisper, “And when he went to park in his usual spot, the car that had been in you-know-who’s driveway was in my husband’s spot, and my husband had to park in the next one.”

  “Was he certain it was the same car?”

  “Pretty sure. There weren’t a lot of cars on the road at that time of morning.”

  My pulse sped. If it was the same car and if she was telling the truth, her information could help catch a murderer. “Did he notice the license number?”

  “No.”

  “Did he see anyone in or around the car?”

  “No.”

  “Which mall?”

  “I don’t think it has a name. It’s the one that’s about a mile south of our place, down on Packers Road.”

  “And your husband’s usual spot is near his office?” At a mall, there was a good possibility that there were surveillance cameras, and some of them might be aimed toward her husband’s office. Even if there were several dental offices, her information could help narrow down the search.

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t park in front of his office. He parks in front of the post office because it has a surveillance camera. He figures his car is safer there.”

  Even better. I tried not to look excited. “Did you or your husband tell the police?”

  She glanced up at my patently fake police hat. “No. I’m telling you.”

  “They’d rather hear it from you. And your husband.”

  She hunched her shoulders forward again. “He’s at work now, but we can tell the police about it tonight.” Would they? “Anyway, since then, no one has parked in my husband’s regular spot. That car was there only that one morning.”

  I double-checked. “Which morning?”

  “Monday. I always add a new yoga pose to my routine on Mondays, and that was the day I did that.”

  “Did your husband notice the color or model of the car?”

  “Gray or silver, he said, a small older car, you know, one of those nondescript ones. It wasn’t dawn yet, and he didn’t pay a lot of attention. The car’s driver was gone.”

  “And it wasn’t Georgia Treetor’s car, but another one?”

  “I told you. An extra car was in her driveway. The extra one went away. Hers stayed.”

  Was she telling the truth? I put on what I hoped would pass as an admiring smile. “Your husband puts in long hours.”

  “A patient woke us up that morning, calling in horrible pain. My husband never lets them suffer long if he can help it.” She had clear, pale skin, sort of like mine, the kind that betrayed even the slightest blush, but I didn’t understand why thinking about her husband’s admirable work ethic and dedication to his patients would have turned her face red.

  Did she or her husband murder Georgia and then concoct a convenient story about a gray or silver car? Or was the dentist a murderer and she was doing her best to protect him? It wasn’t working—she’d caused me to suspect both of them. I thought of pretending I needed a new, caring dentist, and asking the dentist’s name, but I was sure I could find out who he was. I knew where she lived, and if she’d been truthful, I knew approximately where her husband’s office was. If he really was a dentist. How many dental offices could be in one mall?

  Her story wasn’t consistent. First, she said she’d seen the extra car after her alarm went off, and later in the conversation, she said that a patient had awakened her and her husband. Both things could have happened, I supposed.

  I asked, “Would you like a donut?”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s on the house.”

  “No, thanks. My husband’s a dentist. We don’t eat sugar.” With that peculiar gait that seemed to make her knees bow as if she were a patron of Randy’s dude ranch, she left. She passed the outdoor patios flanking our front door, and then turned right, but she didn’t walk up our driveway. If she had come into town in a car, I didn’t see it.

  A couple of police officers left immediately after she did, but they only glanced to the right, and then they turned left, toward the police station.

  I topped off coffee, served donuts, cappuccinos, and lattes, and stopped at tables to chat. As soon as I could take a break, I ducked into the office and sat at the desk. Dep jumped into my lap and purred. I phoned the police station and asked for Brent. He wasn’t in. I left the number for my cell phone, which I kept in my apron pocket, and also the number for the Deputy Donut landline.

  By noon, when the Knitpickers packed up their knitting, Brent hadn’t phoned.

  I could learn more about the so-called dentist without interfering with the investigation, and then I could give Brent more details....

  Helping the Knitpickers with the door, I gestured to Lois to wait. The others started down the sidewalk between our outdoor eating areas. I whispered to Lois, “Can you pick me up here at four thirty this afternoon? I have an idea.”

  “An adventure?” But those pale blue eyes were wary.

  “Definitely. We’re going to visit a dentist.”

  Shaking her head, Lois covered her mouth, but not before I saw her quick grin. Her reluctance was obviously fake. I added, “We’ll have to drive there. If the dentist closes at five, I won’t have time to go home for my car, first.”

  She patted my arm. “I’ll be here with the van at four twenty-five.” Nothing beat having a friend who not only wouldn’t scold me for a little harmless snooping but who was also eager to participate.

  Scott and Oliver again met for their afternoon coffee break, and gave me smiles that would have made my heart turn cartwheels when I was fourteen. As usual, except for the briefcase he was carrying, Oliver looked like he’d come from a golf course. He was in a white polo shirt and khakis. Scott was wearing the dark blue chinos and shirt he wore in the fire station. Oliver ordered a medium-sized mug of our Indian coffee and one unglazed unraised donut. Scott ordered a large house blend coffee and two grape jelly-filled donuts.

  Oliver asked, “How can you eat all that stuff?”

  Scott quipped, “One thing a fireman knows how to do is burn things. Including calories.”

  I laughed.

  Oliver opened his briefcase and handed me a flyer. “The Chamber of Commerce is sponsoring a presentation about fire safety. Scott’s giving it.” Scott blushed, but Oliver went on. “We’re trying to get all the business owners in Fallingbrook to attend. Citizens, too. It’s tomorrow night. Sorry for the short notice.”

  Scott cleared his throat. “Emily and Tom designed this place with fire safety in mind. They’re probably the last people who need to attend the presentation.”

  Sc
ott was right about our planning. Tom had made certain that we followed every fire safety recommendation, and then some. He had also insisted on installing hidden video cameras aimed toward our front and back doors and another one pointed at the counter near our cash drawer. If we opened the drawer and reached all the way back, we could push a button that sent a distress signal to 911. The police, emergency medical, and fire departments were only blocks away. Deputy Donut was probably the safest shop in all of northern Wisconsin. I smiled at Scott. “Tom and I are always happy to learn new things.” Scott blushed again. I offered to set a pile of flyers on the counter near the cash drawer where patrons would see them.

  Oliver accepted. “It’s at the high school gym. How about if I pick you up here at six thirty tomorrow evening, Emily?”

  I forced butterflies down. It was almost like a date—with my high school crush. I could hardly wait to tell Misty and Samantha. Except in my heart of hearts, I knew I wasn’t really interested in Oliver, or in anyone. And I wished he had asked one of my friends, instead. On the other hand, he was giving me an opportunity to introduce them to him. Now all I had to do was convince them to attend the presentation, also. Unless they had to work, they would, if only to tease me about going to it with Oliver. Trying not to blush, I smiled at both him and Scott. “That would be great.”

  “Glad you can make it, Emily,” Scott said in an uncharacteristically dry and unenthusiastic way.

  I set some of the brochures on the counter where people would see them when they paid their bills.

  Brent didn’t return my call, and he didn’t show up in Deputy Donut, either.

  Randy Unterlaw did, again in a dress shirt, light blue this time, worn untucked over jeans that fit him perfectly. I was sliding a tray of fresh donuts into the display counter. He came straight to me.

  Chapter 17

  I asked Randy what he’d like.

  “What’s new?”

  “Tom made cranberry-orange-walnut fritters. We have one left. And the chocolate donuts with orange icing are going quickly, too.”

  “They both sound good. Give me one of each. And a coffee.”

  “Drip?”

  He grinned. He really was handsome. “Who’re you calling a drip? Can I have a latte instead?”

  I grinned back. “Sure.”

  “Do you deliver?”

  It wasn’t the first time that a male customer had asked a question that could be taken more than one way. I gave my stock answer. “I’ll bring them to your table.”

  “No, I mean, does Deputy Donut deliver outside the shop? Like down the street or across town?”

  “Coffee is really best served fresh.”

  “If you didn’t have to go far to make the deliveries, would it be fresh enough?”

  “Almost, but why wouldn’t people come here?”

  He flashed that delectable grin. One of his front teeth was chipped, which didn’t make him any less adorable, even though I thought I remembered how he’d chipped it—tumbling down the concrete steps in front of Fallingbrook High. After that, very few fights started at the top of the steps. “’Cause I have this really cool idea. Did you see the article about Deputy Donut in today’s Fallingbrook News?”

  “No, but a reporter came here and interviewed us a couple of weeks ago.”

  “It said you started out taking donuts to kids’ birthday parties.” He tilted his head in a cute way, like he was unsure of himself or his facts. “Did you make cakes out of stacked-up donuts and things like that?”

  “Yes, then we started the shop, and now people come here and pick up their cakes made of donuts.”

  Looking beyond me, Randy pulled his left shirt sleeve down, but I could still see the tattooed D and the period after it on his wrist. “What if you delivered in a cop car?”

  Tom spoke from behind my shoulder. In his quiet sneakers, he had crept up behind me. “I don’t think the police department would approve.” I was surprised, given that we were speaking to Randy Unterlaw, that I heard a smile in Tom’s voice. Maybe Tom was starting to notice that Randy had grown up and was no longer the hot-tempered boy from twenty years ago.

  Randy put on a very respectful face. “No, Chief Westhill, here’s my idea. You buy an old police car, or just a vintage car, and paint it to look like a cruiser, but with ‘DEPUTY DONUT’ on the side. And maybe a donut on top instead of a flashing light?”

  I couldn’t help a big smile. “I love it! I love old cars.”

  Tom complained, “Emily would want to be our delivery person so she could drive the antique car, and then I’d be stuck running around in here like she does.” He was only pretending to disapprove. I could tell that he liked the idea.

  “I might let you drive it sometimes, Tom.” I managed to say it with a completely straight face.

  Randy paid for his coffee and donuts and sat at Scott and Oliver’s table.

  Brent didn’t return my call. Maybe Yvonne Passenmath had sent him out into the countryside where phone reception was spotty or nonexistent. I found a moment in the kitchen to tell Tom that Yvonne Passenmath was now investigating Georgia’s murder. His comment could not be repeated in polite company. I teased, “Does it make you want to leap in and investigate on the sly?”

  “No.” Even wearing that silly hat with the fuzzy donut on it, Tom could be fierce and intimidating. “It certainly does not. Civilians do not do that.”

  “It’s all my fault! I should have known better than to touch anything in a possible crime scene. And now Brent, just because he was Alec’s partner, has to pay for my actions.”

  “Have a donut,” Tom said. “I need one, too.” He shook his head. “Yvonne Passenmath! How is she going to solve a murder? She never came close to passing the exams for detective while she was on the Fallingbrook PD. Alec and Brent aced them.”

  “I need to leave at four thirty, but I’ll be back about an hour later for Dep, and will tidy up then, so leave it all for me.”

  “Okay.” He turned toward a vat of hot oil. “Passenmath, of all people,” he grumbled.

  Fortunately, he must have been too distracted to ask why I had to leave early. Even though the reconnaissance mission I’d planned was going to be perfectly safe and innocent, and there was no way that anyone could think we were interfering in a murder investigation, Tom might try to stop Lois and me from going on it.

  At four thirty, I locked the door behind the last customer, took off my apron and hat, and closed myself inside the office.

  Brent hadn’t phoned our landline, either. Lois’s van was already in the parking lot.

  “Mew!” Apparently, Dep expected me to clip on her halter and leash and take her with me. I picked her up and kissed the top of her warm, furry head. “I’ll be back for you in about an hour.”

  I set her down. Keeping her at bay, I eased out the back door and locked it. Then I ran to Lois’s van and hopped in.

  She started it. “Where are we going?”

  “Actually, I hope you’ll know.”

  Lois revved the engine. “Well, I don’t. A dentist, you said, but you didn’t say who or where.” With luck, Tom wouldn’t come out to investigate her race-car noises.

  “I mean, I hope you’ll know of a mall about a mile south of Georgia’s place. Supposedly, there’s a dentist there, and a post office, and I don’t know what else.”

  “Why are you so excited about seeing a dentist?”

  “Did you notice that the woman who lives across the street from Georgia’s house came into Deputy Donut this morning?”

  She steered down the driveway. “Yes, I did.” She turned right, on a route that would eventually take us toward Georgia’s neighborhood, several miles south of downtown.

  I told her what the woman had said about an unfamiliar, small gray car starting out in Georgia’s driveway early Monday morning and parking in the mall where the woman’s husband had his dental office.

  “And she said there’s a post office there, too?” Lois asked. “We should definitel
y check that out. That’s probably where Georgia usually took her packages. Georgia told me that the lady at the post office thought it was strange that a tiny person like Georgia borrowed a ‘great big’ minivan, and then thought it was even stranger when Georgia told her that the artist she borrowed it from was just as small as she was, and just as old. As if! I mean, hadn’t that postmistress ever heard of power steering and power brakes?”

  “Do you know that postmistress?”

  “Never met her. I never went to that post office. But anyone who knew about our trading vehicles could be responsible for the attack on me. And maybe for Georgia’s death, too. And Matthias’s. Ah, what am I thinking?” She sounded disgusted with herself. “It would have been over five years ago that Georgia told a postmistress about us trading vehicles. Post office employees could have changed a dozen times or more by now.” She pressed harder on the gas pedal. “But it won’t hurt to see what we can find out.”

  I patted the small backpack on my lap. “I always have a notebook and pen with me in case I think of new flavors for donuts. I’ll watch for small silver or gray sedans like Georgia’s neighbor described and take down their license numbers.”

  “And then we’ll . . . do what? Turn the numbers over to your detective?”

  “He’s not my detective. Besides, he’s no longer the lead detective looking into Georgia’s death.” I described my conversation with Misty.

  “He was demoted because of you. In my book, that makes him your detective.”

  “I don’t think much of your book.” I logged on to my phone and searched for post offices. “Okay, I found all three of Fallingbrook’s post offices. There’s the one downtown that I’ve gone to all my life except when I was away at college, another one in the east end where the new subdivisions are, and there’s also one on Packers Road, about a mile south of where Georgia lived.” Casually, I asked, “Does Randy still drive that black car with the white fender? Or did he have it repainted while he was out west?”

  “I don’t know what happened to that one. He came back with a small gray car. And you’re not to think it’s the one that the dentist’s wife told you about.”