Beyond a Reasonable Donut

by Ginger Bolton

  “You don’t hear the name Zebadiah much.”

  “He was christened a long time ago, but the family is still fond of old-fashioned names. Look at me. There aren’t a lot of Alphaeuses around.”

  “Alf’s a great name, though, and Alphaeus sounds very executive, don’t you think?”

  He gave me a slightly tipsy smile. “I hope so.”

  “Be glad they didn’t name you Methuselah.” Or whatever name was so embarrassing or horrible that Hooligan preferred being called Hooligan. “What are some of the other strange names in your family?”

  “Nick’s real name is Nicodemus. I don’t remember any others at the moment.” He looked off into the distance. “Wait, I think there was also a Nehemiah.”

  Biting into another little pillow of ricotta and spinach goodness, I realized why the name Zebadiah Seaster had sounded familiar.

  I had heard Zippy Melwyn say something that I’d decided was “a die a seized her” or “I die. I seized her.” Could she have been trying to tell me that her attacker was connected to Zebadiah Seaster? I hadn’t made out all of the syllables, but she could have said something about her attacker being descended from Zebadiah Seaster. Had Alf been bragging about his ancestors when he attacked her? He seemed proud enough of his lineage to have done such a thing.

  But maybe he’d had another, more sinister reason for mentioning Zebadiah Seaster to her. Zippy’s real name was Zipporah. Was she connected to the Seaster family and their penchant for old-fashioned names? Had Alf intentionally attacked a relative and told his victim about their relationship while he was trying to kill her?

  Nina had told me that the old gentleman whose photo had been in the locket had been one of Nina’s ancestors. Alf could have intentionally killed a relative, but maybe he thought she was Nina.

  The ravioli that had tasted marvelous only minutes before was now revolting.

  Alf gulped at his scotch and nearly finished it. “It’s not just wishful thinking that I can take over Seaster Enterprises. I’m the right guy to make the best decisions. Nick Seaster and his wife are likely to topple their entire empire. They wanted to pass all of their companies down through the family, but they disinherited their only child.”

  “What did he do that got him disinherited?” Maybe he’d been a murderer.

  “She. Their daughter refused to join the family firm, so they disinherited her.”

  I pictured Zippy and her career as a mime. Her smile had been only painted on, but she’d thrown a lot of enthusiasm into her performances. “Forcing someone to run a company when they don’t want to or don’t have enough experience doesn’t make sense.”

  He fingered his glass. “You understand.”

  “Not completely. Do you mean they cut her out of their wills entirely?”

  “You got it.”

  “If she doesn’t want to work for the family firm, why not simply choose the best person for the job? Cutting her out of their wills seems gothic and extreme.”

  “That’s how they tried to coerce her. They could still change their minds. She might do something that would make them decide she was worthy of inheriting after all.”

  He was talking about Nick Seaster’s daughter as if she were still alive. Zippy must not have been the disinherited daughter. “What kind of thing?”

  “Become very successful in another field, perhaps.”

  “But then for sure she wouldn’t want to head the corporation. Being successful in one field doesn’t guarantee she’d automatically do well in another, does it?”

  “It certainly does not. They probably would let her continue in her chosen field if she became very well-known. She hasn’t. She might never. For now, the Seasters are willing their entire fortune to a ranch for rescued horses and dogs. I’m sure their daughter can dispute that when the time comes, if she has a brain in her head. I would.”

  Zippy and Nina were probably distant cousins, and if the old gentleman in the locket was Zebadiah Seaster, he could have been the ancestor of both women. Which would mean they were both related to the man across the table from me. If Alf disputed a will giving a fortune to a ranch for stray dogs and horses, and if he successfully argued that he was the Seasters’ closest living and nonincarcerated relative, he could possibly gain the wealth he needed to increase the earnings of Seaster Enterprises. And his own net worth, too, no doubt.

  Alf didn’t seem to notice that I was lost in conjectures about him and his possible motives for killing someone he had believed was Nina, or for killing Zippy in Nina’s apartment, causing Nina to appear guilty of the murder. He took a deep breath that expanded his chest and made the wrinkles in his shirt less obvious. “Are you having dessert, Emily?”

  My smile had become about as wooden as the table. A large silver platter of dessert samples was perched on a small table beside ours, between us and the door to the restaurant. “The choice looks impossible.” That was true. “I probably want one of each.” That was not true. I’d lost my appetite. I went on with my lies. “But I’d better not, so I’ll go take a good long look at all of them.”

  “You’re the expert on sweets.” His smile bordered on lecherous, and I liked him even less than I had moments before, if that was possible. “Let me know which one you choose. I’ll have the same thing.”

  I stood up. I wanted to go past the desserts and out into the night, but that would have been obvious. Besides, I was safest where I was, surrounded by strangers. I stood staring down at the desserts.

  It was hard to believe that the disinherited heir could be Nina, but it seemed to fit. It could explain why Nina never talked about her family. She must have been so hurt by her parents’ actions that she’d changed her name in a sort of reverse disinheritance. She could have chosen the new last name of Lapeer, consciously or unconsciously, because of the slightly older distant cousin who lived in a city called Lapeer.

  Alf could have learned Nina’s new surname. She’d once told me she’d tried dating sites. Had he recognized her on one of them? It seemed more likely that he’d found out from her parents or from gossip that she’d chosen art over commerce, and then all he had to do was follow news in the art world. He could have seen her photo on the Arthur C. Arthurs website or in an art magazine. Knowing he was searching for a woman whose first name was Nina, Alf could have recognized a family resemblance between that photo and some of his own relatives.

  And then, discovering that the prestigious art connoisseur Arthur C. Arthurs was promoting Nina, Alf could have feared that she might become so famous that her parents would reinstate her, and he had decided to prevent that. He had taken a couple of weeks for a visit to Fallingbrook, giving him plenty of time to finalize his plans and carry them out. He had brought addresses of where Nina might be. He had watched her front door and had followed the woman he thought was Nina up to Nina’s loft, and his attack on the woman had caused her death and Nina’s arrest. I was sure he’d have gone to Madison for Nina’s opening gala if he hadn’t achieved his goal in Fallingbrook.

  Eliminating the wrong woman wouldn’t have mattered as long as Alf wasn’t caught. If Nina was in jail for murder, her parents weren’t likely to reinstate her. As a bonus, he’d conveniently knocked Zippy out of the line of heirs. If Nina or another human stood to inherit the Seaster fortune, it would probably be impossible for him to overturn the will. He might have thought he had a chance of taking the money from the horses and dogs. He could have been wrong, but believing that he could successfully contest the Seasters’ wills might have emboldened him to try, and he’d started the process by attempting to kill the Seasters’ only child, Nina.

  Meanwhile, I was annoyed by his cavalier attitude toward animals, and also by his flirtatiousness when I was certain he had a fiancée, one whose laundering skills surpassed mine.

  I stared down at the desserts. How had Zippy learned Nina’s new surname?

  Maybe it had been easy.

  Zippy had been in touch with Arthur C. Arthurs. She must have paid att
ention to his gallery’s website. She could have seen the photo of Nina Lapeer of Fallingbrook, Wisconsin. Even if Zippy hadn’t recognized Nina as the distant cousin whose locket she’d stolen, she would have noticed how closely Nina resembled her. Zippy had come to Fallingbrook, probably with the hope of destroying Nina’s budding art career and giving herself a better chance at an art show of her own at the Arthurs Gallery. She must have thought she was lucky when she discovered Nina’s street address on Marsha’s clipboard. Then, after we left the sugar behind the passenger seat and hadn’t locked the car, Zippy had hidden an encrypted form of the address in Nina’s locket and had stolen the sugar and, accidentally or not, left the envelope with the fragment of the letter and the 1890s woman’s photo in the car.

  Later that night, Zippy had taken the sugar to Nina’s apartment and vandalized Nina’s painting. And what Zippy might have thought was the best of luck turned out to be the very worst, for her.

  Again, Alf’s voice startled me. He called from the table, “Which do you think looks best, Emily? Is there anything with chocolate?”

  I took a better look. “No chocolate.” Ordinarily, I’d have had a terrible time choosing between sugar cookies, lemon meringue pie, pecan pie, raspberry cheesecake, peach tarts, and crème brûlée, and I was having a terrible time at the moment, but for a different reason. I couldn’t concentrate on anything besides Alf, what he must have done, and how I could prove it without putting myself in danger.

  I returned to the table. “They all look good,” I lied, “but I have a slight preference for crème brûlée because I never make it.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll have.”

  “And I think I should come up with a recipe for crème brûlée donuts.”

  “Definitely.”

  When the desserts came, along with another scotch for Alf, his eyes were almost as glassy as the crème brûlée’s golden melted-sugar coating. Despite my concern for Nina’s safety if Alf ever found her and my anxiety about dining with a possible murderer, I managed to eat my dessert.

  The waiter approached.

  I didn’t want Alf to pay for my meal. I put my hand out for the folder containing the bill, and the waiter gave it to me.

  Alf protested, “You shouldn’t.”

  I gripped the folder tightly. “It’s Wisconsin hospitality. If I’m ever in New York, it’ll be your turn.” I didn’t add that there was exactly zero chance of my contacting him if I ever went to New York.

  “Done.” He rolled down his sleeves as if he’d accomplished an important job.

  White powder spilled out of one of his sleeves.

  Chapter 31

  It was only a sprinkling, but I had seen the white powder fall directly from Alf’s sleeve. Had he recycled the shirt he’d worn when he attacked Zippy on Friday? He’d told his fiancée that he’d lengthened his “business trip” and changed hotels. Was that true? If it was, had he done it to give himself more time and a better chance at killing someone else?

  He could have chosen to stay at the Lake Cares Away Resort because Samantha and Hooligan were holding their wedding here. One of their friends and relatives could be next on Alf’s list. Me, for instance, if he feared I had recognized him driving the car that almost hit Nina.

  I wasn’t sure I could breathe.

  Kassandra had described the man in the pub as having a roundish or squarish face, a large and reddish nose, and as being old, and I’d pictured Marv the Marvelous. Alf’s nose was rather long and had reddened while he’d been drinking scotch. Although I wouldn’t say that Alf was old, Kassandra, who seemed to be in her early twenties, might.

  Brushing the powder off the table and onto the floor, he gave me an assessing look.

  I tried to act like I hadn’t noticed the powder, what he’d done to it, or his expression. As innocently as possible, I slid my gaze past him to the window. It was dark outside. Wavy glass distorted the reflection of the homey candlelit restaurant. My face above the cornflower blue sweater looked oddly stretched and pale. And frightened.

  My phone rang. I grabbed it out of my purse and hid my fear by looking down at the display.

  “It’s the other bridesmaid,” I told Alf without looking up. “I should answer.”

  “By all means. Do.”

  “Hi, Misty,” I said. “The restaurant kitchen closes in five minutes. I hope you can make it.”

  “I’ll drive fast.”

  I tried to put a little doubt into “answering” a question she hadn’t asked. “Sure, it’s okay if you bring Brent.”

  As always, Misty understood my ploy. She asked quietly, “Do you need him for official reasons?”

  “Yes. You, too!” I threw about a ton of enthusiasm into my answer.

  “We’ll be right there.” She stated each word firmly.

  “Great.” She had disconnected.

  I looked across the table at Alf. He was frowning.

  I gave him my best smile. “They might make it before the restaurant closes.”

  “Who’s Brent?”

  I twirled my wedding ring around my finger. “The guy I’m seeing. She said he hasn’t eaten yet, either.”

  “You’re letting him crash your bachelorette party?”

  That was rich, coming from someone I’d invited to share part of our evening with us. “Only for dinner.” Anyone who knew me well would be able to tell that my smile was false. “I’ll wait here for them and try to keep the kitchen open a little longer.”

  “Okay. See you later.” He stood. He probably didn’t realize that white powder dotted his black trousers, and I wasn’t about to tell him. He patted my shoulder as he passed. I tried not to shrink away.

  Again, I heard a shoe squeak against the hard maple floor. This time I was sure it was his shoe. The front door opened and closed.

  My knuckles were white. I loosened my grip on my phone and called Misty back. “Bring Brent and drive fast. You’re not looking for Marvin Oarhill, Rodeo Rod, or Kassandra Pyerson. I believe that another distant cousin of Zippy’s, Alphaeus Chator, killed her, and is probably driving the gray car I told Brent about. I suspect he’s about to leave Cares Away.”

  Her answer was terse. “I’ll pass that along.”

  We disconnected, and I searched the internet for images of Zebadiah Seaster. I found one that was identical to the photo in Nina’s locket. As I’d guessed, Zebadiah’s wife was the Victorian lady in the black dress in the photo that undoubtedly fit into the other side of the locket.

  I typed Nicodemus Seaster into a search engine and found him mentioned in an obituary for his father, Nehemiah Seaster. In addition to his son, Nehemiah had been survived by his daughter-in-law Jane Ellen Seaster, and his granddaughter Nina Seaster.

  The hostess came to my table. “Is Samantha still coming?”

  “She and the other bridesmaid will be here soon.” I didn’t tell the hostess that I had already enlisted the other bridesmaid in police duties. I hoped Misty wouldn’t end up pursuing Alf to an airport. I didn’t want her missing any more of our girls’ night out.

  “Our chef thinks Samantha is sweeter and kinder than any other bride he’s ever worked with. He loved helping her plan her rehearsal dinner and reception menus. When he found out she might be late, he promised to stay as long as necessary to cook for her and the other person in your party.”

  “Thank you! And thank the chef for me. Samantha is on her way with the other bridesmaid and a friend of ours.”

  “Not the guy that just left?”

  “A different guy. One who hasn’t eaten.” I also didn’t tell the hostess that Brent might end up missing dinner.

  “That’s fine. We’re happy to feed them all.” She pointed back toward the crowded room behind her. “As you can see, lots of people are still here, so several of us will be staying for a while, anyway.”

  I straightened my napkin and placed it on the table. “Please don’t let anyone clear the table or clean the floor near it yet.”

  “We don’
t usually sweep around diners, but the table . . .” She tilted her head in question.

  “I can’t explain, but there’s something I want my friends to see before the table’s cleared.” She was going to think I was really strange.

  Apparently she didn’t. Nodding vigorously, she smiled. “We get lots of bachelorette parties with all sorts of games and pranks. We’ll do whatever we can to help Samantha live happily ever after!”

  She went off toward the kitchen. I put my phone in my bag, left my bag on the table, and walked toward the front door.

  Two black marks marred the rock maple floor. They were about where I’d heard Alf’s shoes squeak, once when he was arriving, and the second time when he was leaving.

  I bent down for a closer look. Only a forensic investigator would be certain, but I thought that both scuff marks resembled the one near the base of the ladder Zippy must have been on when she fell.

  I stood up and glanced warily toward the door.

  Usually, when I’m afraid someone might have been watching me do something I don’t want to be seen doing, no one’s there.

  This time, through the door’s high window with its wrought iron curlicues and bars, I saw the top half of Alf’s face.

  He was staring straight at me.

  Pretending I hadn’t noticed, I turned and headed toward the table I’d vacated.

  I heard the door open.

  I didn’t look back. A shoe squeaked against the floor, and then it seemed that he stopped walking. Judging by the sounds he made, he was brushing at the floor with the sole of his shoe as if he could wipe off the scuff marks I’d examined.

  I didn’t look, even when I heard footsteps coming closer to where I’d suddenly halted as if frozen beside the platter of desserts.