Dark Drizzles

by Jessica Beck

  “I don’t know, I thought I behaved myself pretty well, considering the circumstances,” I said with a smile. I’d retrieved the last of my garbage and had put the lid back on tightly. Whoever had been roaming around behind our shops was long gone, and I hoped they didn’t come back. It was most likely some kids out feeling their oats, and while I could respect that time of life, I didn’t necessarily want to clean up after it. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do tomorrow,” I admitted.

  “I thought you handled yourself quite well,” Gabby said, “but would you like a friendly word of advice?”

  “I would,” I admitted, wondering what she was about to offer.

  “Be firmer with them,” she said. “Slap them down hard, even harder than you did today. That’s clearly all that they understand.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?” I asked.

  “Then sit back and let them ravage themselves with a clear conscience. I noticed that it didn’t affect your donut or book sales, so let them rip each other’s throats out, if that’s what it takes.”

  “I’m not sure I can stand idly by and watch that happen,” I said with a frown. “Hannah Thrush doesn’t seem the type to stand up for herself, and Hank Fletcher can only do so much.”

  “That’s a fine figure of a man, there,” Gabby said a bit wistfully. “Regardless of all of that, she agreed to go onstage, so she’s got to expect a certain amount of rudeness cast in her direction, especially since she outsells the rest of them, no matter what Tom Johnson might claim.”

  “I didn’t realize you were that up on the book world, Gabby,” I said.

  “I have more interests than designer clothing,” she said curtly, and then she turned on her heel and went back into her shop.

  I walked around front, went back in to wash my hands, and then I locked the donut shop up for the night. It was getting to be past my usual early dinnertime, and I was starving, despite sampling my own goodies earlier.

  The moment I walked in through the door of the Boxcar, I regretted my decision. At a table in the back of the diner sat all four of my panelists, and they were squabbling just as much as they had onstage earlier, which was hard to believe.

  I started to back out when Trish Granger, owner and operator, grabbed my arm and grinned. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I just remembered I left something on the stove,” I said.

  “Like what? We both know that you don’t go to the trouble of cooking while Jake’s away.”

  That was one of the problems with living in such a small town. Everybody knew everyone else’s business, especially friends. “Okay, the mail is sitting there on it, so technically I didn’t lie to you.”

  “Cooking up some catalogues, are we?” Trish asked me.

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t think I can face that pack of wolves again so soon after that debacle on stage.”

  “Suzanne, I doubt any of them would even recognize you at the moment, they are each so wrapped up in their own personas. What a bunch of divas.”

  “I know that Amanda and Tom can be overbearing, but not Hannah and Hank.”

  “Wow, you’re on a first-name basis with that crew?” she asked me with a smile. “Anyway, don’t kid yourself. They’ve been giving as good as they’ve been getting.”

  “Why do you let them go on like that, then?” I asked her as their voices continued to grow in volume.

  “You’re kidding, right? It’s the liveliest it’s been in here for ages. Besides, nobody seems to mind. Look around.”

  I did as she suggested, and I was surprised to find that most of the other diners were watching the free show in back and not even trying to hide the fact that they were listening in. Maybe that was why the authors were being so dramatic. It must be lonely sitting in a room all day writing, but was this really the only other alternative? I spotted two odd folks sitting together at a table, Gregory Smith and Cindy Faber, both from the question-and-answer session. They were doing their best to soak it all in. I hadn’t even realized that they knew each other. “Did they come in together?” I asked as I pointed to the unlikely pair.

  “No, but I wasn’t about to let them each take up a table meant for four people. I told them they could sit together or go somewhere else. They both grumbled about it a bit, but they decided to do it anyway, not that either one has even looked at the other since they sat down.”

  “You might be okay with it, but I’ve had enough of their nonsense. I’m getting out of here,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “Tell you what,” Trish said. “Sit right here by the register and keep me company. Even if they look up here, they won’t be able to see you. We haven’t chatted for quite a while, and I miss you.”

  Trish certainly knew how to persuade me to stay. It was true that she and I didn’t really have a lot of time to talk lately, just the two of us. That was entirely my fault. I seemed to either be with Jake or Grace or Momma when I wasn’t at Donut Hearts. Not that Trish didn’t have friends of her own, but we’d been pals nearly as long as Grace and I had been, and the truth was that I missed her, too. “You’ve got a deal,” I said.

  “That’s great,” she said. “I’m getting hungry myself. Why don’t I have Hilda rustle us up some hamburgers and fries? Or did you have something a little more refined in mind?”

  “Hi, I’m Suzanne Hart,” I told her as I offered her my hand. “Sometimes, I swear it’s like you don’t even know me. Is there anything about me that says I might be refined?”

  We both started laughing, but no one seemed to notice, or care. Tom Johnson was giving a mini lecture on what it took to be a real writer these days, and Amanda seemed to dispute every other word. For the most part, it appeared that Hannah and Hank were content to sit back and stay out of the fray, but every now and then Hannah would give her opinion. Tom would, without fail, try to bully her into shutting up, but Hank wasn’t going to let that happen. I had to wonder if there might be something developing between the two of them, something that didn’t escape Hannah’s admirer, Gregory Smith. If looks could kill, that would be one dead cowboy cast iron cooker.

  Hilda must have put us at the head of the line, because our burgers and fries were out in no time, and as we ate, Trish and I chatted a little, though we spent most of our time commenting on some of the things the authors’ table was talking about. I didn’t want to press my luck by hanging around any longer than I already had, so I decided to go while I still could.

  Trish had other ideas, though. “I’ve got some fresh peach cobbler in back. Let’s sneak into the kitchen and have some.”

  “Can you afford to leave the register like that?” I asked her.

  “Hilda can watch it for me,” she said. “It will give her a chance to get out of the kitchen, something she’s always complaining about. Come on, I’ve got vanilla bean ice cream, too. What do you say?”

  “How can I possibly say no to an offer like that?” I asked. “Purely out of respect for our friendship, I mean.”

  We both laughed like a couple of schoolgirls, something neither one of us had been in a very long time. Hilda was happy for the change of pace, and Trish and I made up our bowls of fresh cobbler, both liberally topped with ice cream, and we went into her tiny office, a space barely big enough for the two of us. We finally had a real chance to chat, and it was wonderful catching up with her without the distractions out front. I felt myself fighting more and more yawns, and when I glanced at my watch, I saw that we’d been back there for nearly an hour! “As much fun as this has been, I’ve got to at least get a little sleep. What do I owe you?”

  “This one’s on me,” she said.

  “Trish.”

  “Suzanne,” she replied in the same tone of voice I’d used.

  “I feel bad letting you buy me dinner and dessert.”

  “Bring me some donuts tomorrow and we’ll call it even.”

  “Do you want enough to sell to your customers?” I asked her, surprised that she might actually do that,
since I’d been after her for years to carry some of my treats. After all, a little bit of guaranteed income every day couldn’t be a bad thing, but she’d steadfastly refused.

  “They aren’t going to be for my customers. I want them for me and my staff, so if you bring me more than a dozen donuts, I’m going to be very upset with you.”

  “Understood,” I said. I hugged her, thanked her again, and we both walked out into a nearly empty dining room.

  “What did you do, run them off?” Trish asked Hilda, clearly joking.

  “I was about to the second I got out here, but those bozos in back left right after you two went in back, and most of our diners went with them.”

  “They’ve been gone an hour, and we were still hiding out in your office?” I asked Trish.

  “Hey, maybe they missed us,” she said. “Hilda, Suzanne is bringing donuts in the morning, just for us. Have any preferences?”

  “Pumpkin,” she said firmly.

  It wasn’t pumpkin donut season, but I wasn’t about to bring that up. “You’ve got it. How about you, Trish?”

  “Make it an even dozen pumpkin and I’ll be a happy camper,” she said. “I know you don’t usually sell them this time of year, but I’m with Hilda. I’ve been craving those things since Valentine’s Day.”

  “You’ve got a deal, but the smallest batch I can make is two dozen,” I said, lying wholeheartedly. “If I put them out for my customers, they’ll expect them year-round. What do you say? Do you want them all, or should I just throw the excess away?” I would never be able to do that, and Trish knew it as well as I did, but it was a game I was intent on playing.

  “I say you might as well bring them all,” she said with a wry smile. “I’m going to have to walk around the park for six hours to burn them off, but so what? They’re worth it.”

  “See you tomorrow morning then, bright and early,” I said. “Good night, Hilda.”

  “Night, Suzanne,” she said, and then I got out of there while I still could.

  Chapter 6

  I started to walk through the park toward home, but something made me feel uneasy about the short trek. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but with Jake gone, I decided there was no reason to take any unnecessary chances. Instead, I headed off in the direction of the donut shop, which was just across the street. As I approached my building, I saw something was amiss.

  Though the door had been pulled shut between the kitchen and dining area, I could still see a sliver of light coming out from under it. I was positive I’d turned everything off earlier, but clearly I’d been mistaken. Was I starting to lose it already?

  Unlocking the front door, I didn’t think anything about it. I was careful to lock it behind me, though. I’d been unpleasantly surprised before, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again, not if there was anything I could do about it.

  As I walked into the kitchen, my hand froze in midair as I was ready to shut the light off and go home.

  There on the floor, one foot wedged in the opening, keeping the back door open, was one of the writers I’d seen at the Boxcar Grill not more than an hour earlier. My heavy donut dropper I used to add the batter to the oil was lying beside him, and I could see blood and hair caked on one edge of it. It was pretty clear that it had been used as the murder weapon, something that made me sick enough to want to throw up, but I fought it back, and after a few seconds, I managed to keep it down.

  After trying and failing to find a pulse against the cold skin, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911.

  It was clear enough that Tom Johnson had written his last book, and I had another dead body on my hands.

  Chapter 7

  “This is Suzanne Hart. I’m at the donut shop. Somebody killed Tom Johnson.”

  “Who?” the new dispatcher asked. “I’ve never heard of him.” I’d heard through the grapevine that there had already been complaints about this woman, and I didn’t have time to straighten her out.

  “One of the writers we invited for the festival. Does it really matter? I need somebody here now!”

  “Okay, hold on. Let’s see. Who’s on duty tonight?” she asked.

  “I hope you’re talking to yourself, because I surely don’t know. Forget it. I’ll call the chief myself.”

  “He’s not going to like that,” the woman said, scolding me a little for daring to take some initiative about the dead body lying at my feet.

  “He’ll just have to learn to live with the disappointment,” I said as I hung up. I called the chief on his cell phone, and he picked up on the second ring.

  “What’s up, Suzanne? I’m over at Grace’s.”

  “Somebody killed Tom Johnson in my kitchen,” I said.

  “At the house?” he asked as I heard him heading for the door.

  “No, the donut shop.”

  “Did you call 911?” he asked.

  “I tried, but I couldn’t seem to get the point across that this was urgent.”

  He bristled at that news. “That’s it. I’m firing her first thing tomorrow morning. You know the drill. Don’t touch anything.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. Before I went back out front to unlock the door, I took a few quick photos of the crime scene. I hadn’t been a fan of Tom Johnson—neither his work nor his personality—but that didn’t mean I was going to let this go. He’d been murdered in my shop, and I wasn’t going to stand for that. Worse yet, the killer had used my heavy donut dropper to do it. I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to make cake donuts again, but I knew one thing: I could never use that particular dropper ever again. I took a few shots of that as well, and then I rushed to get the door before Chief Grant could show up and ask me what I’d been doing.

  I got there and unlocked the door three seconds before he pulled up.

  As I held it open for him, he said, “Everything’s been set in motion. Do you want to wait outside?”

  “Not particularly. Can I just sit on one of my couches over there for now?”

  He nodded, and to his credit, he didn’t take very long to decide. “Just stay out of the way, okay?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of interfering,” I said.

  He let that go, so he knew that I was upset. Well, who wouldn’t be? Finding a dead body is one of the worst things that can happen, at least as far as I was concerned. Not two minutes later, three other officers came in, and ten seconds after them, the EMTs arrived with their ambulance. I was surprised the fire department wasn’t there as well. They had become the primary first responders in our town for all kinds of things, not just fires. Maybe the dispatcher had failed to call them. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least.

  I sat there in silence, listening to the voices as they worked in calm efficiency. Chief Grant was the general, making sure his troops did as they were told, and I was impressed yet again with my younger friend’s calm demeanor. Then again, he hadn’t stumbled across Tom Johnson’s body unexpectedly. At least I’d been able to give him a little warning.

  Five minutes later, the EMTs came back and retrieved their gurney from their ambulance. It took them less than three minutes to load the body, and I was standing by the door when they came back out. As I held it open for them, I stared down at the black plastic bag that held the writer’s body, and I couldn’t help but shiver a little at the sight of it. The man had been a thorn in my side the last day of his life, but I still felt myself mourning him. I might not have cared for him or his work, but I knew that a great many people did. How was poor Cindy Faber going to react when she heard the news?

  If it was news to her. Could she have killed her idol after he rejected her one too many times? It was certainly possible. I knew from experience that for some people, the line between love and hate was a very fine one indeed. Then again, there were plenty of folks who wouldn’t shed a tear for the late author, including the three other people who had shared a stage, and a dinner table, with him earlier that day. I knew that each one of them had clashed
with him, some rather heatedly. Was that cause for murder, though? I didn’t know, at least not yet, but I was going to find out. With any luck, Grace would be willing to help me, but one way or the other, I was going to find out what had really happened to Tom Johnson.

  I was still standing there holding the outside door open long after the body had been transported away when I heard someone call my name. “Suzanne? Are you okay?”

  “Hi, Grace. Somebody killed Tom Johnson in my kitchen,” I said almost mechanically. “They used the dropper I use to make cake donuts. I can’t use it anymore.” What was wrong with me? I sounded like a complete and utter idiot.

  Grace understood, though. “When this is all over, we’ll get you a new one. Would you like to go home?”

  “No, I need to stay here.”

  “Then let’s at least sit down,” Grace said as she steered me to a couch. “I would have been here sooner, but Stephen made me promise not to come. I finally decided that was garbage, so I came.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said.

  The chief himself came out of the kitchen a moment later. “Grace, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m comforting my friend,” she said. “We both knew that I wasn’t going to stay away very long. I gave you fifteen minutes. You should take it and be happy.”

  “Yeah, that’s a fair point,” he said. “I’m sorry, though. I need to speak with Suzanne alone.”

  “I don’t mind if she stays,” I said. The truth was I was still feeling a bit shaky about what I’d seen. I don’t care what anyone says, stumbling across a dead body, whether it’s your first or your fortieth, is a horrible experience that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  “That’s all well and good, but this is official police business, so I don’t have a whole lot of latitude.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll wait outside,” Grace said before turning back to her boyfriend. “Is that acceptable to you, Chief?” she asked him.

  “It’s more than fine,” he said, clearly relieved that he hadn’t had to have her physically removed from the crime scene.