Survival of the Fritters

by Ginger Bolton

  “Scott Ritsorf is giving a fire safety presentation.”

  “He’s a sweetie.”

  “I know. But here’s the thing. The Chamber of Commerce is sponsoring it, and I somehow managed to agree that Oliver Rossimer could take me to the presentation. Wah!”

  “What do you mean, wah? I remember when you’d have given your eyelashes to go somewhere with Oliver.”

  “Me, too, but I don’t know why I said I would now, after all these years. I’m not ready to date, and I don’t want to lead anyone into thinking that I am. But if you and Samantha go, also, I can introduce him to both of you. And we can all sit together.”

  “The sacrifices we have to make for our friends. When is it?”

  “Seven. He’s picking me up at six thirty.”

  “That’s in forty-five minutes!”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t sound so glum. I’m just going off duty and was about to take this hunk of metal back to the police station and change out of my uniform. But how about if I come into Aggleton’s store with you? No telling when he might slip you some tainted meat.”

  “That was before his time, and besides, the food poisoning wasn’t Matthias’s fault.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Aggleton.” She radioed headquarters that she’d return her car five minutes late, and got out.

  Even scruffier than the last time I saw him at Taste of Fallingbrook, Aggleton didn’t seem particularly pleased to see us.

  I pasted on a fake smile. “You said to tell my friends about your shop, and this is one of my friends.”

  Although he was standing, he had to look up at Misty to give her the full force of his glare. “You spend your working time shopping when the citizens of this town are paying you to keep our streets safe?”

  She hitched up her gun belt. “Those two activities are not necessarily mutually exclusive.” She could be very threatening when she wanted to. Apparently, she wanted to.

  “Okay, ladies, I know why you’re here. I saw you plotting for ten minutes outside.” It had been more like two, and we hadn’t been plotting. “The woman who sold me this store died recently. I did not kill her, and I did not kill her son, and I can prove it.” He reached between the table holding his cash register and the counter where people set their purchases. He pulled out a slightly curling light blue poster board with brochures and scraps of paper stuck to it, some flapping loosely, others dog-eared. It looked like a grade school project that had seen better days. “This is my alibi for when Matthias Treetor went missing and was killed. See here?” He pointed at a receipt pasted to the upper left corner of the poster board. The receipt was so faded that I couldn’t read it in the dim light. “After Matthias Treetor pulled that stunt with the pitcher in the state baseball finals, I wasn’t about to let my son play either baseball or hockey with Treetor coaching. When Treetor failed to show up for that organizational meeting for hockey here in Fallingbrook, and was getting himself murdered, I was buying gas fifty miles away, taking my son to a town where a much superior hockey team was forming.” He pointed at a postcard. “Read this.”

  The printing was irregular, in pencil. “Dear Mom, Dad and I are in Wisconsin Dells. We’re having a lot of fun.”

  I couldn’t help asking Aggleton, “You didn’t clear the trip with the boy’s mother before you left? She didn’t find out where you were until this postcard was delivered?”

  He sneered. “You got it all wrong. I phoned her while we were on the road. But kids like to think they’re the first to tell someone their news. And just in case you think all we did was buy a postcard, look at these. Here are the kid’s ride ticket stubs and the brochures we picked up at the hotel. And down here, see? It’s the receipt for our hotel. We didn’t get back until after Treetor had been missing for two days.”

  “Impressive,” I managed.

  Misty asked, “Did you show this to the police right after Treetor’s body was found?”

  “Not right after. I showed it to them when they came around my house asking where I’d been that week. Seems that someone, probably Treetor’s mother, let it be known that I’d been trying to buy this store. I might have been, but I didn’t want it badly enough to kill for it. And now, with it losing money all the time, I don’t want it at all.” He folded his arms and turned up the wattage of the glare he was aiming at Misty. “I knew you’d be back now that the guy’s mother is dead.”

  “I’m a street cop, not a detective.”

  “As if that’d stop any cop from arresting an innocent person.” He turned his back on us. One apron string was safety-pinned to the apron near a hole where the string must have once been sewn. He retrieved another, less ratty poster. This one was orange. “I had the smarts to keep everything from the trip I made with my son last week. And don’t look at me that way. I wasn’t planning anything about that Treetor woman. I’ve always kept souvenirs, receipts and ticket stubs. See? We bought gas Thursday afternoon after three in Fallingbrook.” Georgia had been in Deputy Donut Friday morning. “See? Selfies, time-stamped on Friday outside Lambeau Field. And on Saturday, we were at Lambeau Field again for a Packers game. Here are the ticket stubs. Two, one for me and one for my son. And here’s our hotel receipt. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. When we arrived home on Tuesday, I heard that the Treetor woman had been found dead. So, Madame Policewoman, you can take all that information back to your station and tell the others not to come around here bothering me.”

  She gave him an easy smile. “I’ll tell them that, but detectives don’t take orders from patrol cops. Someone might bother you anyway. I’m sure your display will impress them.” She turned to the door and I followed.

  “Hey!” Aggleton called. “I thought you were going to shop!”

  I smiled as sweetly as I could. “We were, but I just looked at the time. I don’t want to be late for the Chamber of Commerce’s fire safety presentation. Are you attending, Mr. Aggleton? It’s for everyone, especially business owners. It’s at seven in the high school gym.”

  “Hardly.” He flicked a gaze toward the ceiling, and then back at us. He looked guilty, as if he’d disconnected the sprinklers up there and hoped that no one would figure it out.

  At her cruiser, Misty said, “I’ll call Samantha. If she’s not working tonight she can join me, watching you blush every time Oliver looks at you.”

  “Thanks.” I was becoming expert at Brent-like deadpanning. I hurried into the parking lot behind Taste of Fallingbrook. “Mmp,” I mumbled, but my mmping was still vastly substandard. I drove to Deputy Donut and parked in our lot in back. With all that rushing around, I was five minutes early. I went around to the front of Deputy Donut and admired how inviting it looked with outdoor patios on both sides of the front door and flower boxes on the wrought-iron railings surrounding the patios.

  I was happily deadheading asters when I heard a strange, coughing engine sound, and then a squeaky Ah-ooo-gah!

  Chapter 24

  Wearing a pale blue polo shirt and khakis, Oliver piloted a Tin Lizzie to the curb.

  I climbed into the passenger seat. “A Model T! The other day, I was thinking about how these things must have startled horses on the streets of Fallingbrook.”

  “Like it?”

  “It’s great. Where did you find one in such pristine condition?”

  “It wasn’t like this. It was almost unsalvageable. I restored it. I’ll probably sell it and restore something else.”

  “How did you learn to restore cars?”

  He turned right on Wisconsin Street. “I taught myself. My father owned car dealerships. I hung around their maintenance departments until they put me to work when I was twelve. By the time I graduated from high school, I was managing three maintenance departments.”

  “How did you find time? You were student council president, and involved in clubs, sports, and the theater department, plus you were always on the honor roll.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “
Many of us looked up to you.”

  “I noticed. I was able to do all those things because I don’t need much sleep and I like to be organized. I never, ever waste time. I don’t watch TV except for the late news. I don’t play video games or read novels. I have a part-time housekeeper and hire help for home and lawn maintenance. That way, I can concentrate on what I need and want to do, like restore cars. After I finished my business degree at college, I went to work for my father and became manager of all five of his maintenance departments.”

  “Five at once?”

  “I had assistant managers. When my father died three years ago, cars and pickup trucks were beginning to seem small and less challenging. I sold three of my father’s dealerships and bought the construction equipment business, but I kept two dealerships. Plus, to keep my hand in with the technology in each new generation of vehicles, I run the two car dealerships I kept. I’m in charge of sales and all the rest of it.”

  “Even with not sleeping and being organized and not wasting time, it’s amazing that you can do all that and run your heavy equipment dealership, too.”

  He tapped his forehead. “Assistants. As I learned way back in grade school, delegating allows me to do what I want, including playing golf. You’ll see, when you become successful enough. You might have to take some chances, be a risk taker. Open franchises, license your product and recipes, hire more staff. You wouldn’t have to work such long hours. Play your cards right, and you won’t have to work at all. I’m retiring in ten years. I’ve got it all planned down to the last penny.”

  I liked working at Deputy Donut. “I figure that if you love the work you do, it doesn’t qualify as work. Certainly not as drudgery.”

  “I would have never accepted a life of drudgery.”

  Some people, I thought, don’t have a choice. Oliver and I were lucky.

  He stopped for a light. “I love my work, but I won’t mind being free to do other things. Travel, for instance. Wouldn’t you like to have time to travel?”

  “I suppose so.” I tried to imagine what I’d have thought at sixteen if anyone had told me that I would one day have this conversation with Oliver Rossimer. At sixteen, I’d have taken his question about traveling as almost a marriage proposal. I smiled just thinking about being that young and imaginative.

  “Too many people think they can wait until they retire to do all the things they want to. Some, like my folks, don’t live long enough.”

  “I’m sorry about your folks. Mine stay in Florida except during the hottest weather. Then they come back here.”

  “To each his own. Though there are some good golf courses down there, if you don’t mind alligators getting in the way.”

  Picturing alligators prowling the greens and deliberately blocking shots with wide-open mouths or outstretched claws, I couldn’t help laughing.

  “It’s true,” Oliver said. “Alligators are everywhere in Florida, even on golf courses.”

  The light turned green. People in other cars smiled at us and at the Model T puttering along below the speed limit. The ride was bone jarring, but fun, and I pictured myself wearing a long dress, boots with hundreds of tiny buttons, and a wide-brimmed hat tied on with a lacy scarf.

  Fallingbrook High hadn’t changed much, at least from the outside, in the eleven years since I’d graduated. The parking lot had never been big, but Oliver found a space close to the door leading into the gym. I hopped out of the Model T. A red SUV labeled FIRE CHIEF pulled up several rows back, and Scott, in his firehouse uniform of navy pants and shirt, loped toward us. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

  Oliver touched the gold watch on his wrist. “We just got here.” He held the door open for me, and then there was a shuffle as both Scott and Oliver tried to let the other one go inside first. Scott won, and followed us in.

  The gym smelled the same way it had over a decade ago—rubber from basketballs and sneakers, and a nose-prickling aroma of sweeping compound that had been whooshed over the shiny hardwood floor by the world’s widest dust mops.

  Considering that the presentation wasn’t due to start for twenty minutes, and custodians were unfolding chairs on the gym floor, there were a surprising number of people sitting in the chairs that were already set up.

  A table, with three chairs facing the audience, was next to the podium. I asked Scott, “Need help bringing anything in?”

  He gave me one of his lazy grins. “It’s just a couple of cartons. I’ll get them. I wanted to scope everything out first.” He strode out.

  Oliver pointed at the table beside the podium. “I’ll be in front, so sit wherever you like, Emily.”

  I slipped into an aisle seat, four rows back, in the section of seats to the right of the aisle. Then I sat there wondering if Dep was worrying if I was ever coming home again. Probably not. She knew she was in charge. Whenever she heard me step onto the porch, she probably believed she had commanded me to show up that very moment.

  Hearing familiar voices behind me, I turned around. In jeans and a white cotton sweater, Misty was holding the door for Scott and Samantha, who were carrying large cardboard cartons. Samantha had also changed out of her uniform and was wearing a denim skirt, a red sweater, and red patent flats.

  I moved so that Misty and Samantha could have the seats closest to the aisle.

  Samantha sat beside me. “Misty said you came with Oliver. Was she joking?”

  I did my best to look insulted. “Why would it be a joke? Never mind. Don’t answer. Oliver brought me here in his Model T.”

  Samantha crowed, “Hoo-whee!”

  Misty flapped one of her hands as if she were trying to shake off hot coals. “What’s it like to live a dream?”

  I asked, “Do the dreams of kids count after we’re adults?”

  “You betcha!” Samantha was no sluggard when it came to fervor.

  “I might have outgrown my dreams about Oliver,” I confided, “but I don’t know if I can ever outgrow dreams of flivvers.”

  Samantha crossed her eyes. “Sooo romantic.”

  “I thought she said ‘livers,’ ” Misty retorted.

  I fixed her with a frown. “No, you didn’t.”

  She reached across Samantha, gripped my wrist, and nodded toward a slim, round-shouldered woman carrying an outsized tote and wearing black yoga pants, a tight black top, and ballet slippers. “Isn’t that . . . ?”

  I knew of only one person who walked like that, as if she were tiptoeing, but on the sides of her feet instead of on her toes. I completed the sentence for Misty. “Georgia’s neighbor from across the street. Yes. I wonder if the man with her is her dentist husband, Dr. Jierson.”

  Misty squinted toward him. “Could be. He looks like a dentist.”

  Samantha giggled. “I don’t see a drill.”

  “Perfectly groomed,” Misty explained.

  “Men in lots of professions wear suits and ties to work,” I pointed out.

  “But dentists aren’t necessarily among them,” Samantha contributed.

  Misty stared at him. “Look at his fingernails. They’re short, even for a man, and I bet you won’t find a speck of dirt underneath them.”

  With her thumb and forefinger, Samantha pinched her nostrils closed for a second. “You can carry your police officer observation talents too far sometimes, Misty.”

  “You’re just jealous. All you have to do is figure out if someone is sick or injured enough to warrant medical care or transport to the nearest hospital, preferably with you at the wheel driving at excessive speeds and cackling as you leave us poor cops behind in the dust.”

  “I never cackle.”

  “What’s that sound I hear when you’re speeding past, then?” Misty demanded.

  “Her siren,” I answered. “Both of you probably chose your professions because they allow you to blast sirens.”

  Samantha and Misty gave each other high fives. “You could have, too,” Samantha said.

  “It’s not too late,” Misty added.


  I thought about Randy’s idea of using an old police cruiser for deliveries from Deputy Donut. Even if the car had a siren, though, turning it on would probably be illegal. Pity. I brightened. I would be able to tease Misty by threatening to turn on a siren and strobe lights.

  Mrs. Jierson sat at the left end of the front row, lowered her head, and pawed through the enormous tote on her lap.

  The immaculately groomed, short-nailed man walked to the podium. Unlike Mrs. Jierson, he walked loudly, setting each hard-soled loafer down solidly. “Short-man walk,” Samantha commented. The man shook hands with Oliver and Scott.

  Misty leaned toward us. “Dentistry is perfect for short men. Their patients are lying down and can never tower over them.”

  “Watch what you say about short people,” Samantha warned. “Emily and I might gang up on you.”

  “How?” Misty asked. “By standing on each other’s shoulders?”

  “Not possible,” Samantha said. “Not both at once. I’ll stand on Emily.”

  Misty demanded, “Are you threatening an officer of the law?”

  “Don’t worry,” Samantha soothed like someone talking to a beloved pet. “If Emily and I injure you, I’ll drive you to the hospital. Very fast.”

  I nodded enthusiastically. “Sirens blaring.”

  People kept arriving. I recognized Deputy Donut customers, the head librarian, the woman who owned the clothing boutique next to Deputy Donut, several people whom I’d seen in The Craft Croft, the owner of the diner across the street, the woman from the sewing shop, and the twin brothers who owned the bookstore.

  Oliver and the man we’d guessed was Dr. Jierson helped Scott arrange smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, fire extinguishers, brochures, coloring books, and stickers on the table beside the podium.

  At precisely seven, Oliver gestured for Scott to take a seat at the tables. The well-groomed man also sat. Shoes hitting the floor at least as hard as the shorter man’s had, Oliver strode to the podium. He welcomed us and introduced Dr. Jierson as the vice president of the Chamber of Commerce. Strangely, Oliver didn’t mention Dr. Jierson’s first name.