Survival of the Fritters

by Ginger Bolton

“I’m outnumbered,” I admitted.

  Unfortunately, Misty and Samantha left about a half hour before Scott and Oliver arrived for their afternoon coffee break, so I wasn’t able to observe the progress of my matchmaking. Scott, Oliver, and I had basically the same conversation I’d had with Misty and Samantha, and with nearly everyone else in Deputy Donut that day.

  Oliver shook his head. “I can’t believe it. They must have the wrong person. Randy and I booked a golf game for this afternoon. I’ll have to cancel it or find someone else.”

  Scott said mildly, “We knew what he was like in high school.”

  “I could have sworn he had reformed.” Oliver turned to me. “I don’t know whether Randy has savings, but I do know he doesn’t have a job in Fallingbrook, yet. I interviewed him for a sales position at my construction equipment dealership, and was about to offer him the job. It’ll be his if they drop the charges or he’s acquitted. Meanwhile, I’ve started a defense fund for him at the Fallingbrook State Bank. May I put up a flyer about it on your bulletin board by the front door?”

  Quickly, I said that he could. “And feel free to leave a stack of flyers here on the counter. I’m glad there’s something we can do for him, but . . .”

  “But what?” Scott asked.

  Brent had told me about and let me see some of the evidence they’d collected against Randy, but I wouldn’t compromise a possible trial by divulging any of it. “We get a lot of cops in here. From their body language, I’m guessing that the police have a strong case against him.”

  “That’s too bad,” Oliver said. “He had some good ideas, and I was looking forward to having him on my sales force, if you didn’t snap him up first to drive your vintage delivery car.”

  I asked, “He told you about that?”

  How could Misty possibly resist Scott? He had a breathtakingly winning smile. “He told us both, and that you and Chief Westhill were in competition to drive it.” He looked at his watch. “Oops. My shift starts in ten. Unlike you, Rossimer, I don’t get Labor Day off.”

  Oliver explained, “The self-employed can’t always take time off, right, Emily?”

  Wistful expressions on their faces, several women watched Scott stride out of Deputy Donut. I would have to find more ways to throw him and Misty together. Seeing each other during emergencies had not, so far, done the trick.

  And Samantha could have the handsome man in front of me. “Guess what,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I have a delivery vehicle that you might like. When do you finish tonight? I’ll bring it around.”

  “We finish tidying about five thirty. What kind of vehicle?”

  “You’ll see.” He held a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell Chief Westhill. I’d like your reaction, first. How does after supper sound, like about seven?”

  “Fine.”

  “Here, or will you be at home?”

  “I need to catch up on some clerical work, so how about here?”

  “Perfect. I don’t have to worry about those mundane aspects of business. That’s what employees are for. But you keep working hard, and you’ll get there, someday.” He paid for his donut and coffee, pinned a flyer to the bulletin board beside the front door, and left.

  At four twenty-eight, the last three clients left. Tom and I locked and tidied the shop, and then we joined Dep in the office, turned on the computer, and ordered a few days’ worth of freshly roasted coffee beans.

  Tom opened the door leading outside to the parking lot. “See you tomorrow.” Sitting at the computer with Dep purring on my lap, I watched him drive away.

  I had to admire Oliver for setting up a defense fund for Randy, something that hadn’t occurred to me. I told myself that his bringing a vehicle for me to see was more like a business meeting than a date. I hoped he saw it that way.

  I’d been spoiled by my few years of being married to a nearly perfect man.

  My cat, however, was far from perfect. She batted at receipts and bills, drastically slowing my spreadsheet entries.

  At precisely seven, a car pulled into our parking lot.

  It was a vintage police cruiser, complete with a rectangular red light on top that said POLICE.

  It looked brand-new.

  Chapter 32

  Barely taking my eyes off the gorgeous old police cruiser, I told Dep to stay. Why did I expect that to work? I bent over, blocked her with my open palm, and slithered out backward.

  Oliver stood beside the driver’s door of the black and white squad car.

  “Wow,” I managed. “What is it?” I pointed at the shield-shaped insignia on the front center of the hood. It looked like a medieval coat of arms, with the word “Ford” prominent above the gryphons, or whatever they were, rampant on red and blue fields. “Besides a Ford.”

  “A 1950 Ford. They called this model a four-door, spelled F-o-r-d-o-r. There was also a two-door model, which they spelled T-u-d-o-r.”

  “Cute.”

  “I’m sorry to say that this particular one wasn’t originally a police car, but I did put a one hundred ten–horsepower V-eight engine into it, like the most powerful engine they made in 1950 specifically for police cars. I’d just restored it when Randy said that Deputy Donut should make its deliveries in an old-fashioned police car. I’d already painted it black, so I repainted the doors and roof white and fastened a light to the roof. Isn’t she a beauty?”

  “It’s perfect!” I was certain that Tom would like it, although he might prefer a few more horses under the hood. I wished that Randy could see it, wished that he weren’t locked up, wished that Matthias and Georgia were still alive. Alec, too. Impossible wishes, all of them. I stifled a sigh.

  Oliver asked, “Can you drive a stick shift? It’s only a three-speed, plus reverse.”

  “Yes.” My parents had always preferred standard transmissions. After I learned to drive standards, though, my parents switched to automatics. Alec had preferred standards for his personal cars, and I understood the satisfaction of accelerating while shifting cleanly.

  “Want to drive her?”

  I took a step backward and clasped my hands behind my back like a toddler who was told not to touch something. “I’m afraid to. It’s beautiful.” I was a good driver, but still . . . Maybe I didn’t want to be tempted to buy it. Deputy Donut was doing well, but I was almost positive that we didn’t need a delivery vehicle and wouldn’t use one enough to justify owning it.

  “Would you like to go for a ride? I’ll drive first, and you can decide later if you want to try.”

  How could I resist an offer like that? “I’d love to!”

  “Hop in.” He slid into the driver’s seat.

  I opened the passenger door and climbed onto the passenger end of the bench seat. The car even had that new car smell. I automatically reached for a seat belt, but there wasn’t one.

  Oliver must have noticed my fumbling. “I didn’t install seat belts because it would lower the value if I sell it as a classic car. But you should have seat belts in a delivery car, so if you want this beauty, I’ll install them.” He put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot. At the end of Deputy Donut’s driveway, he turned right on Wisconsin Street and accelerated.

  The Ford’s engine thrummed. I was sure the nearly flat seat was a good copy of the original, but it wasn’t as comfortable as new car seats. In addition, not wearing a seat belt didn’t seem right, even though Oliver drove like a policeman, fast and capably.

  He turned on the radio. “The dashboard is authentic. It’s hiding the latest in car radios.” Music nearly blasted me out of my seat. “I hid new speakers behind the grill.”

  I shouted, “This car has everything!”

  He switched off the radio. “All it needs is your logo on the doors. I can have that done.”

  “And a big fake donut on top, like another light bar, I mean light circle.”

  He shuddered as if he didn’t care for the whimsical idea that Randy had given me. “I’ll leave
that one up to you.”

  Maybe I wasn’t going to fall for Oliver as I might have when I was fourteen, but I was rapidly falling for this car. I turned toward him. “How much do you want for it?”

  His price was lower than I’d feared. If Tom and I needed to do a lot of deliveries, maybe we could afford the car and someone to drive it. “Or you could lease it, even month-to-month, and I’d take it back—without the fake donut on top—whenever you no longer wanted it.” He told me the monthly payment. Again, it was less than I might have expected. “Also,” he said, “let me know if you ever want to test-drive a front-end loader or a bulldozer.”

  “Could I use one to deliver donuts and coffee?”

  He patted the dashboard. “Don’t you think this baby would work better?”

  Explaining that I’d been joking would have been lame. “Yes.”

  Beyond Fallingbrook’s outskirts, Oliver turned west and stepped on the gas, and we raced down a two-lane highway bordered on both sides by dense woods. I was glad the road was smooth. With no seat belt, I was sliding around on the slippery vinyl. I asked, “What about trunk space? Would I have to put coffee urns and my cakes made of piled-up donuts on the back seat?”

  “I’ll show you.” He signaled and pulled onto the road’s wide gravel shoulder. “This baby was made back in the day when turn signals weren’t standard equipment, but they were offered as optional extras on 1950 Fordors. So were heaters, windshield washers, outside mirrors, map lights, and lights in the glove compartment and trunk. I made certain that this car has every safety and convenience feature that was available in 1950 plus a few new ones.”

  He shut off the engine, opened his door, and his watch caught on the door handle. He took off the watch—an expensive gold one—and set it on the dashboard.

  I clambered out and met him at the back of the car. He opened the trunk with a key. As promised, a light came on. The trunk was roomy enough for several coffee urns and cakes made of piled-up donuts.

  Two other things drew my attention, however.

  One was a white ball cap with a Green Bay Packers logo—a white capital G on a dark green oval outlined in yellow. I told myself that lots of people owned Packers caps.

  The other thing was a white plastic supermarket bag with the words “Taste of Fallingbrook” on it. The bag was translucent enough for me to read the lettering on the thin rectangular package inside it.

  Oliver Rossimer had water slide paper in the trunk of his pristine 1950 Ford Fordor.

  Chapter 33

  Water slide paper.

  Someone could have used water slide paper to make a temporary tattoo matching Randy’s, which would come in handy if someone wanted to impersonate Randy while committing crimes.

  My face heated, my ears rang, and I could think of nothing to say. Had I gasped at the sight of the water slide paper inside the Taste of Fallingbrook grocery bag? To cover my possibly obvious shock, I babbled, “You’re right about the light inside the trunk! And didn’t the old cars have spacious trunks?” There was room in this one for a medium-sized person, either dead or alive, and I didn’t see one of those glowin-the-dark trunk release pulls that were in newer cars.

  I stepped back and couldn’t help a quick glance toward the dense forest crowding the road. Even if I could make my way through it, I would never be able to outrun Oliver.

  “These old cars were spacious everywhere.” I was certain that Oliver was scrutinizing whatever he could see of my lowered face. He was undoubtedly wondering why I was flushed.

  It was a coincidence, I told myself. Most Wisconsinites had at least one Green Bay Packers ball cap. Maybe Fred Aggleton was having a sale on water slide paper, and many people were buying it. I could understand why a mother of seven-year-old twins would want supplies for creating temporary tattoos, but Oliver? He did not, as far as I knew, have children. And he didn’t seem like the playful sort who would apply tattoos for fun.

  He reached in, put the cap on top of the bag so that it hid most of the label inside the bag, and then closed the trunk with more force than was required for present-day cars. He dusted his hands together. “The Chamber of Commerce is doing something different for Halloween this year. We’re having a potluck dinner. Costumes are optional. We’ll be sending out invitations soon, but I’m telling you early to give you a jump start on planning what to bring and wear. Everyone is hoping you’ll bring donuts. Think I’ll make a good pirate? Arrrrr!”

  I exhaled. The pirate costume explained the water slide paper. Oliver was already planning his retirement, so why wouldn’t he be getting ready for a holiday that was less than two months away? Oliver would be finicky about details like realistic tattoos.

  I glanced quickly at his face. “I know you would!” Now I was gushing. “Weren’t you Captain Hook when the high school put on Peter Pan, the musical?”

  I couldn’t read his face, but he didn’t look evil. “Yes. And although you weren’t in that musical, you would make a good Wendy.”

  If I’d heard those words from him when I was fourteen, my heart would have flown higher than Wendy did when she was following Peter Pan to join the Lost Boys. Now, however, I couldn’t help being frightened. I was alone on a deserted country road with a man who might be a murderer. Stop it, I told myself. You didn’t suspect that mother and her twins of being murderers. Besides, many people would be intrigued by temporary tattoos.

  Oliver pointed toward the front of the car. “Want to try driving her now?”

  “I’m going to have to talk to Tom first. If he’s against the entire idea, maybe I’d better not know how much fun it is to drive it. Her.”

  “Okay.” Oliver headed for the driver’s door. I climbed into the passenger seat, which seemed higher than it had earlier, maybe because my knees and ankles had gone flimsy. Oliver’s not a murderer. Randy is, and Randy’s locked up.

  Oliver turned the key in the ignition and then reached for his watch on the dashboard and slipped it over his left hand. Looking at his wrist, he tapped the face of the watch once with the index finger of his right hand, and then he adjusted the watch to place its face in the middle of the back of his wrist. He raised his left hand and shook it as if to let the watch slip down to a more comfortable position. He put the car in gear, and eased away from the shoulder and into the road.

  My nervousness ballooned to panic, clogging my throat. In the surveillance video taken from the front of the post office on Monday morning, the man driving Randy’s car had gone through the exact same chain of gestures with a wristwatch.

  Could it be?

  When I’d watched the surveillance videos, I should have noticed that putting on a watch was unusual for Randy. I had never seen him wearing one, not back in high school, and not recently. In high school, his tattoo had nearly always been plainly visible. Lately, I’d seen his left wrist many times as he pulled the cuff of his sleeve down as if trying to hide his tattoo. I would have noticed a watch.

  Could Oliver have passed as Randy? They were both almost six feet tall and broad shouldered, with similar muscular builds. They both had dark hair. Unlike Oliver’s, Randy’s was flecked with gray. Oliver’s hair was usually neatly combed, while Randy often looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Oliver was always clean-shaven, but Randy usually had that five o’clock shadow thing going on. Early Monday morning, had Oliver imitated Randy, complete with bowlegged swagger, ball cap, bed head, unshaven chin, and long-sleeved shirt that didn’t quite cover a tattoo? A temporary tattoo . . .

  As far as I could tell, Oliver wasn’t wearing aftershave or cologne at the moment, and I’d never noticed him wearing any. Randy’s, however, was strong. Honey had said that the man who talked to her at the post office early Monday morning had been wearing a subtle fragrance, and I’d chalked up that observation to Honey probably being unable to detect anyone else’s cologne over the smell of her own. If Oliver had been driving Randy’s car, his clothes could have absorbed a hint of Randy’s fragrance.

  Besides,
Lois hadn’t noticed if her attacker was wearing cologne. That could have been because, as she’d said, she was scared. Or it could have been because her attacker was Oliver, and by that time, the aroma that he’d picked up from Randy’s car would have worn off.

  Belatedly, I realized that I should have accepted Oliver’s offer to test-drive the vintage car. However, if Oliver truly wanted to prevent me from going back home, it wouldn’t matter which one of us was driving.

  Had Oliver murdered Georgia?

  And Matthias, also? All along, Lois had insisted that the man driving Randy’s car the evening that Matthias disappeared could not have been Randy because Randy would have stopped to chat. I’d believed that if the driver had been Randy, he had wanted to quickly distance himself from the spot where he’d buried Matthias.

  Oliver would not have stopped, but only partly due to fleeing a crime scene. Back then, there was no reason for Oliver to have known Lois.

  Enhancing the photograph, investigators had decided that the man driving up the hill toward Lois that day had raised his arm. Brent had said that the car’s driver had waved at Lois, which was one reason that the police believed he was Randy. But another man could have been pretending to be Randy, and he could have been making certain that if Lois’s camera caught anything beyond the windshield, it would be a wrist sporting a copy of Randy’s tattoo, made from water slide paper or inked on with a marker. Maybe he had deliberately hidden as much of his face as he could with his tattooed arm. He probably hadn’t realized that reflections on the windshield had nearly obscured his face, anyway.

  And then five years later, the same man could have created and worn a temporary tattoo matching Randy’s simple homemade B.A.D. He could have dressed and walked like Randy, and then tracked down Georgia, the woman who owned the car he’d seen right after he’d killed and buried Matthias. He must have seen Lois aiming her camera at him, and he must have believed that Georgia, not Lois, had witnessed his leaving the scene of the crime.

  Everything about the day that her son went missing must have remained etched in Georgia’s mind. Before she succumbed, she must have told her attacker that she had traded her car for a minivan that day, but she would not have divulged Lois’s name. For some reason, possibly the addressed packages stacked next to Georgia’s front door, her murderer had gone to the post office in hopes of finding out whose van Georgia might have borrowed when she had to haul large boxes. He could have purposely parked in view of a surveillance camera. He’d made certain that the car and its license plate could be seen and identified, but he’d kept his face mostly hidden by pulling the ball cap down, bowing his head, and looking away from the post office and its cameras. His short conversation with Honey Bellaire could have sent him looking for Lois.