Chocolate Peanut Brittle Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy - Book 45 (Donut Hole Cozy Mystery)

by Gillard, Susan

  “No, no, I’m fine.” Leila squared her shoulders. “Atticus Beyer Contracting. Come to our offices at the corner of Wendell Drive and Jordan Road for an appointment. We’re waiting for you.” She shook her head. “That’s all. It’s an advert.”

  “Contractors,” Heather said, and exchanged a glance with Amy.

  She knew another contractor in Hillside. A man who’d evaded notice in another case, though she’d been convinced he was connected to it. Lyle Clarke, the Mafioso cum contractor who’d taken Hillside by storm.

  Could he be connected to this case somehow? He’d left plenty of not-so-vague threats the last time Heather had questioned him.

  “We’d better contact Ryan about this,” Amy said.

  “Right.” Heather wormed her phone out of her pocket. “Was there anything else Leila? Do you perhaps remember seeing Atticus around the house?”

  “Never. But I wasn’t there all the time. He could’ve been in the street. After all, we’re only two blocks from Wendell Drive.”

  “That’s true,” Heather said, and frowned. “Why on earth would a contractor place his offices in the middle of suburbia?”

  “Unless they were set up on short notice,” Amy said. She typed out notes on the screen, her brow wrinkling at the puzzle. “But why would they?”

  A knock rattled their front door and Heather pushed off from the sofa. “Hang tight,” she said. She hurried out of the living room as Dave hauled out of the kitchen, barking on repeat.

  “Relax, Davey, it’s not Lilly,” she said. She unhooked the chain, unlocked the door, then opened up.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.” Her husband held his police hat under his arm. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Only for you, officer,” she said.

  Ryan swept her into a tight hug and planted a kiss on her lips. He swung her around once, he didn’t even grunt, bless his heart, then put her down.

  “Not that I’m not happy to see you, hon, but why are you here? I was just about to phone you. We got a lead on the suspect’s identity.”

  “Contractor on Wendell and Jordan?” Ryan asked. “Yeah, we got some info from his neighbor down there. Apparently, the guy was into noisy arguments. But I’m not here about that.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve come to escort our two new guests back to their home, so they can pack some bags for their stay,” Ryan said.

  “Right, they’re in the living room.” Heather stepped back so he could pass, thoughts ticking like a metronome set too high. Atticus had been a contractor. He’d come from far away. Set up shop in his own home. Had arguments.

  They had a lot to work with but none of it was clear yet. The strangest piece of the puzzle? That engraved letter opener.

  Chapter 4

  Jessie Baron refused to let them into her home. Instead, she remained on the fold out chair on her lawn, sipping from a can of soda, chubby ankles elevated by a foam cushion.

  “How long have you lived here?” Heather asked, from her perch on the chair across from Jessie’s. Eva’s home reared on their right, quiet in the morning sunlight. A yellow police line cut off the front of the house from the public.

  “Oh, say about five years,” Jessie said, and slurped on the end of her straw. “Yeah, it’s been pretty quiet. I haven’t been home much over the past few years because of work.”

  “You travel a lot?” Ames stood on the stone path which led up to the front of Jessie’s home, her hand sheltering her eyes from the sun.

  “Yeah. I used to before I pulled my ankle,” she said, she wobbled one of her pale legs. “I’m a saleswoman. Sell all kinds of things. You name it, I sell it.”

  “Hand sanitizer?” Amy asked.

  “The best you’ll get your hands on.” Jessie guffawed. “Get the joke?”

  Amy chose not to answer.

  “So you were home yesterday morning, is that correct?” Heather asked.

  Jessie hummed and tilted her soda can to the right then the left. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I’m investigating a murder which occurred next door. I’m sure you noticed the commotion and the police line, since you’re here all day,” Heather said.

  “I did notice, yeah. But, you know, when you’re a saleswoman you see a lot of strange stuff. You learn to take it in your stride,” Jessie replied, and shrugged her shoulders. “Say, are you with the police?”

  “No.” Heather removed a laminated card from her pocket, shifting on the creaky lawn chair to get it out. She showed it to Jessie. “I’m a consultant certified to help the Hillside Police Department investigate this case.” Thank heavens she’d asked Ryan to fix her and Ames up with two of these cards.

  She’d never figured they’d need it, but lately, people had asked about her authority to investigate. It helped having a card like this on hand to loosen tongues and quiet questions.

  “Okay, I guess,” Jessie said, and sat back. She moved her ankle on its cushion and winced. “Ouch. So what do you need to know?”

  “Were you home yesterday morning?” Amy asked it this time.

  “Yeah, I was. I was inside fetching myself another soda. I like to sit out here during the day. Catch some sun on these legs. Winter robbed me of my classic Texan tan,” she said, and twiddled her fingers at her pins.

  “And did you hear anything suspicious? Or see anything?” Heather asked.

  Jessie glugged back some more of her soda, finished the dregs, then crushed the can in her fist. She wasn’t a weak woman. Could she have been strong enough to break down a door? No, that wasn’t the right question. Heather had broken down a door and she wasn’t as heavy as the number of donuts she ate would suggest.

  The right question would be: was Jessie Baron strong enough to overpower Atticus, who’d been middle-aged and a little flabby.

  “Now, listen, at the time I didn’t think it was suspicious. Don’t get any ideas about my integrity. If I’d realized at the time I would’ve called the ambulance right away. Those two old ladies are always up to something next door. Whether they’re gardening or, or, I don’t know, baking stuff in the kitchen. There’s always a clatter and a clamor happening.” Jessie let out an enormous breath after that monologue.

  “Please, tell us what you saw,” Heather said.

  Ames had already reddened at the less than favorable tone Jessie had used when speaking about Eva and Leila.

  “It’s not what I saw, it’s what I heard,” Jessie replied. “So, I’m in the kitchen, right? I open the fridge because I’ve got good old faithful propping me up and I’ve got to use the other to balance.” She patted the crutch which balanced against her lawn chair. “And that’s when I see it.”

  “See what?” Heather asked. Amy inched forward, cheeks fading back to her usual tan.

  “That I’m out of soda. So I can’t exactly drive to the store. I walk,” Jessie said. “No, I hobble. Get it? Because of the crutch. Get it?”

  Neither of them laughed.

  “Anyway, I hobbled on through to the living room to fetch my keys and that was when I heard a gunshot. I thought it was a gunshot at the time but when I looked out the window, all I saw was the car.”

  “Which car?”

  “I didn’t get the license plate,” Jessie said. “But it was a black car. A hatchback, I think. I was all hazed out from lack of sugar. I love me a good soda, you see.”

  “All right, so it was a car backfire?”

  “That’s what I was getting at. The car backfired and drove off. Then I headed out to the convenience store to get myself another six pack of pop. And on my way past the old lady’s house I saw the door was kind of open,” Jessie said. “Just a crack. I didn’t bother checking in on them. I just figured they were about to head out to that donut store in town.”

  “What else happened?” Heather asked.

  “Nothing but a long walk to the store, lady,” Jessie said. “Mind passing me another pop?”

  Heather dragged the white cooler over to the woman, lifted
the lid and reached into the ice chips for another can of Coke. “Thanks for the information, Mrs. Baron.”

  “Miss,” she said, and accepted the drink. She popped the tab with a chick-hiss. “Miss. And you’re welcome. Nobody likes a murder, especially if it’s next door.”

  Chapter 5

  "A black hatchback," Heather said, for what had to be the fiftieth time in the last ten minutes. She couldn't get it out of her mind. "Why wouldn't she recognize it?"

  "What do you mean?" Amy had already poured them two coffees and the women settled behind the counter, eyeing the masses of customers who'd settled at their respective tables. The chatter had surpassed its usual hum of noise. Maybe it was the increase in the popularity of Donut Delights, or maybe spring had brought a fresh need for refreshment.

  Heather rolled the cup between her palms and the remains of her coffee swished at the sides of the cup. "It just seems strange to me that a saleswoman would forget the make of a car. She's a jack of all trades, right?"

  "What's the female version of that? Jill? A Jill of all trades?"

  "You get what I mean, though. She should know about cars." Heather put her cup down. "Or am I reading too much into it. She just seemed really unconcerned about a murder next door."

  "I didn't appreciate her observation about Leila and Eva either," Amy said. "But yeah, we can't make the assumption that she should've known."

  "Or that she's lying. Her ankle wasn't in a brace. And if she injured it, who's to say when that injury occurred," Heather said. "She might've had an old crutch lying around. She's a saleswoman."

  "So, you're saying she's a suspect."

  "Everybody's a suspect." Which brought Heather to her next train of thought. Lyle Clarke. Another infamous contractor. He didn't operate out of his home either. He was big time. Could a big time man like Clarke see Atticus Beyer as a threat?

  Heather unhooked the straps of her handbag from the back of her chair and dragged her tote into her lap. She opened the flaps, then brought out her tablet.

  "Uh oh. Shepherd's got that look in her eye again," Amy said. "That dangerous look. You wouldn't happen to be thinking about another Hillside contractor, would you?"

  "I wouldn't call him a Hillside contractor." She unlocked the screen of her tablet and brought up her browser.

  "Oh boy. Heather, I want to warn you away from him but I know I can't."

  "Why would you want to warn me?" She asked. "He's already sent my family enough warnings to last us until the end of time."

  "I just don't want you to get in over your head."

  "Now, you sound like Ryan," Heather said. "You're supposed to be the crazy one, remember? You tell jokes and support my strange whims."

  "You? Strange whims? Now, that is out of character."

  "Don't joke with me, Givens," she said. She typed 'Lyle Clarke' and 'Atticus Beyer' into the search bar, then hit enter. "Every time I type Atticus I want to type 'Finch' afterward."

  "Huh, where's that from? Sounds familiar."

  "To Kill a Mockingbird," Heather said.

  "Right, right." Amy tossed back the last of her coffee. She took both their cups and placed them back on the grate for round two. Some days, Heather went home and struggled to sleep after caffeine overloads. She'd been dangerously hopped up on the stuff during the first few months of her business venture.

  She'd cooled off after one particularly long night during which she'd visited the bathroom at least five times and Dave had moaned at her throughout.

  "Uh? Results? You're just staring at the coffee cups, Heather. Are you losing it?"

  "Can't lose what's already lost." She scanned the results and sucked in a gasp. "Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy."

  "That's never good."

  "They knew each other." Heather opened the first article, a report from a small online publication based in Arizona. "Local contractor given a chance by New York hotshot Lyle Clarke." She read through more of it, her unease growing with each word. "Atticus Beyer, a local contractor has struck gold! He entered a competition to become a business apprentice to Mr. Lyle Clarke of New York City Contractors and is off to fulfill his destiny. Says Beyer, 'I don't know what I would've done without this opportunity. I keep trying to open my own business but it hasn't worked so far. I figured I'd need guidance from a real businessman and Mr. Clarke is that.' Mr. Beyer will jet off to New York in the coming week."

  "What's the date on that article?" Amy asked.

  "March 10th 2014." Heather scanned it again. "I wonder if it worked out. No, of course it didn't. If it'd worked out Beyer wouldn't have wound up in our best friend's home stabbed to death."

  "You don't think -"

  "Of course I think," Heather said, and glared at the color photo of Atticus and Clarke side by side. Clarke wore his custom suit, as he was wont to do, and Atticus a pair of jeans and a shirt. He was a whole foot shorter than his new - or was it old - business mentor.

  "That's a tenuous connection at best." Amy placed their refills on the countertop. "I mean, so what if the guys knew each other?"

  "So what? Seriously? This is dated three years ago, Ames. Way before Lyle came to Hillside. Atticus must've followed him here, but we don't know whether he was still mentoring the guy or not. It's not a tenuous connection. It's a rock hard connection."

  "Don't get your underwear in a knot," Amy said. "I just don't want you to interview him again and end up regretting it."

  Heather exhaled and measured her response. Two people had this effect on her. Kate Laverne. Lyle Clarke. The individuals capable of ratcheting up her anger response so fast it felt like she'd blow a gasket.

  "I promise I won't push too hard until we find evidence linking him to the crime scene."

  "And you think we will?"

  "I don't have a doubt, now," Heather said. She was supposed to remain impartial but this couldn't be a coincidence. A few weeks ago Amy had harped on about serendipity and this was it in practice.

  "I'd like to figure out why the murder went down in Eva and Leila's house. That's what confuses me the most."

  "I've got a theory about that," Heather said. Her phone blipped and cut her off. She slipped her tablet back into her handbag, then plucked her cellphone out instead. It was hard to keep track of all this technology.

  Heading over to victim's address. Meet me there if you can. Need your expert opinion on the place. Hoskins isn't with me.

  "But my theory will have to wait. We've got a date with Atticus' home office. Are you coming?"

  "Sure," Amy said. "I'll throw the coffees in takeout cups."

  "Better make one for Ryan too. He'll whine if we've got and he hasn't," Heather said.

  "The heart of all good investigations. Coffee and whining in a murdered man's home," Amy replied and rooted around for the cups in question.

  Chapter 6

  Atticus Beyer's home was nothing more than a box at the front of a plot of land. They stood in the living room, gathered in front of the back window, all three of them frowning and focused on the overgrown back garden.

  "Did you know about this?" Heather asked.

  "Not until two minutes ago," Ryan replied. "Our contact didn't give us this information."

  "Who's your contact?"

  "The guy who lives next door," Ryan said, and shrugged. "It seemed the simplest way to get information. He told us that the guy was loud and had arguments with people but that's it. No mention of this."

  Amy peered at both of them from her spot at the end of their line. "I don't get it. Why is this a big deal? It's a trailer."

  "It's not a huge deal," Ryan said. "Just unexpected. If I'd known we'd have this much ground to cover I would've brought Hoskins."

  "For the sugar rush?"

  Ryan ignored her and folded his arms, instead. "We can start searching in the house or take a look at that trailer."

  Heather broke away from the window and strolled over to the line of hooks which stuck out of a wooden plaque beside the door. "I say we do the trailer. A
nd I'd bet anything this is the key to it." She unhooked the key chain and jangled it. "It says 'office' on the tag."

  They were drawn by the trailer. Perhaps, it was the fact that they hadn't expected to find it or because it was so clearly out of the ordinary. The vehicle sparkled in the back garden, windows of spun glass winking at them.

  They trooped out to the trailer and Heather unlocked the front door. It opened on squeaky hinges.

  "I love it when doors do that," Amy muttered.

  Heather didn't get a sense of foreboding from the trailer - her sleuthin' gene itched and wriggled but it wasn't the dread she'd experienced after Leila had crashed into her store on Monday. She stepped into the trailer and walked into a wall of scent.

  Spearmint. So strong her olfactory cells shriveled up in protest.

  “Good heavens,” Amy said. “I can smell that from out here. Where is it coming from?”

  “No idea.” Heather pinched her fingers to her nose and squished. “But let’s make this relatively quick.” She moved past a melamine table nailed to the wall and to the cupboards behind it. She opened them. “Empty.”

  Ryan worked on the cupboards above the tiny sink. He wrenched them open and shook his head. “Empty here too.”

  “Maybe it’s a detergent. The mint smell,” Amy said, from the doorway.

  “You think someone scrubbed it down?” Heather asked.

  “Maybe. I mean, this is excessive. I don’t think they scrubbed it down so much as doused it in whatever chemical smells like an old woman who’s addicted to those sweets they hand out at the end of a meal.”

  Heather opened the door to the bedroom, but walked into another partitioned office. The bed had been removed. “There’s a desk in here. Don’t get excited. It’s clean too.” And that wasn’t an understatement. The top of the desk shone. And it wasn’t attached to the wall. Clearly, the trailer hadn’t been moved in a long time and the owner hadn’t planned on dragging it off anytime soon.

  Did that mean Atticus had planned on staying in Hillside permanently? Or had this trailer belonged to someone else? “Have you made any headway on that letter opener?”