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

by Gillard, Susan

  “It didn’t smell like spearmint, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ryan called out.

  Heather entered the kitchenette, chewing the thought over. “And the engraving?”

  “Two letters,” he said. “S.B.”

  “Initials. But who’s were they?”

  “I don’t want to put a damper on the trailer investigation but guys, I think I’ve lost my sense of smell.” Ames backed away through the long, green grass.

  Heather followed her out and buried her frustration. Who on earth would clean out the trailer? Could it be that there’d been evidence in there? That was the only explanation which made sense to her, but without proof they couldn’t do much except explore the rest of the house and hope for the best.

  “Hey!” A woman stormed down the two back steps of Atticus’s square. Her flaxen hair whipped through the air, a mane which reminded Heather more of a horse than a lioness. “What the heck are you doing on my property?”

  “You’ve got a search warrant, right?” Heather whispered, out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Of course.” Ryan put his palms out and stepped forward to slow the woman. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “May you help me?” She stopped in front of them and rammed her fists onto her skinny hips. “How about I help you get off my property?”

  “Your property?” Heather asked. “This is the home of Atticus Beyer.”

  “Uh yah!” She tossed her hair and Heather expected a whip-crack noise to follow. “Atticus was, like, my boyfriend. We moved here together a couple months ago.”

  At least they had a timeline on when he’d appeared in Hillside. Their dossier was shockingly empty on Atticus’ past. It was always difficult working with out of town folk – particularly if they’d drifted in in the past while.

  “Ma’am, I’m Detective Shepherd and these two ladies are my associates and private investigators working on the murder case.”

  “Murder case?”

  Oh god, no one had notified her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Perhaps, we’d better have this conversation inside,” Ryan said, and gestured to the box house.

  “What? No! Tell me what’s going on, right now.”

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid Atticus –”

  “No,” she said, and put her palms up this time. “No. W-when?”

  “Monday.” Heather walked to the woman and touched her shoulder once. “What’s your name?”

  “Loretta,” she replied. Tears welled in her eyes but didn’t spill. “That idiot! I told him – I told him it was a mistake to come here. I told him.”

  “Loretta –”

  “Please just give me a moment to, I don’t know. I just need a moment.” The girlfriend spun on her nine inch heels and teeter tottered up the two steps and into the house.

  “How did we not know about this?” Heather asked.

  “I have no idea. When we contacted the letting agent they didn’t mention anyone else. The lease was in Beyer’s name. No one came forward to identify him and the fact that another person’s been murdered hasn’t evaded the media’s attention.” Ryan scratched his temple.

  “Apparently, Atticus wasn’t the only one good at hiding out.” Amy’s lips turned down at the corners. “We’re not going to be able to interview her now, are we?”

  “Not in this state. We’ll come back later.”

  Chapter 7

  The nacho chips at Dos Chicos never failed to please Ryan and the enchiladas remained Heather’s favorite. The spicy tang of salsa and the smooth consistency of guacamole – that was her personal heaven.

  She loved donuts and the creative process that came with them, but boy, savories were just as good. The depth of flavor in a mouthful of good Mexican food lifted her mood from confusion to elation in as long as it took her to shovel it in, chew and swallow.

  “We haven’t been out in a while,” Ryan said. He wiped his fingers on a napkin then took her hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles. “And I’ve got to say it’s great to be here with you. Things have been hectic.”

  “Hectic. That’s one word for it.” Her husband’s touch had always soothed her. A unique combination of goosebumps and calm. Ryan Shepherd had become her anchor. In times of trouble, those rocky seas, he held her in place and saved her from capsizing.

  Ryan used his free hand to scoop up a cheesy nacho. He gobbled it down and offered her a closed lipped smile.

  “Have you gotten anything on the murder weapon?”

  “Nothing,” he said, and let go of her hand, switching into business mode. Or rather, cop mode. “We don’t know whose initials they are but I’ve got Hoskins searching online.”

  “You really think he’ll find something on the internet?”

  “No, but it keeps him busy and out of my investigation,” Ryan said. “It sounds harsh but the guy hasn’t been on the best form and I’ve given him plenty of chances. I keep thinking Cap is going to call him in and reprimand him but he never does. And I figured out why.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s married to Cap’s daughter,” Ryan said. “I think he wants to give Hoskins a chance to prove himself. I just don’t know how many chances he’s going to get before Cap finally loses it and kicks him off the force.”

  Heather didn’t know which part shocked her more – that slob Hoskins had a wife or that the Cap had given him a chance. Hoskins probably wasn’t a bad guy, but he was lazy and he’d acted a tad sexist toward Heather when she’d first joined the team. She couldn’t fathom a woman who’d stand that attitude for long.

  “Nothing on the murder weapon or the initials. What about DNA?” Heather asked.

  “I’ll send over a couple updates for your dossier in the morning, but no, nothing for DNA,” Ryan said, and his brow wrinkled up in his classic ‘that doesn’t make sense’ frown.

  “What is it?”

  “The techs took samples from underneath our victim’s fingernails,” he said.

  “Okay?”

  “There was evidence that the fight was physical, obviously. Atticus hadn’t just been stabbed, he’d been punched in the eye.”

  “Oh,” Heather said, and she sat up straight. “Oh! But there wasn’t a skin deposit from the attacker under his fingernails. He didn’t fight back?”

  “He didn’t fight back. That’s as far as we could tell,” Ryan said. “Which begs the question, why wouldn’t Atticus fight his attacker? It’s a puzzle.”

  “Maybe the person who murdered him was special to him? Maybe a lover? Or a close friend?” Heather asked.

  Ryan shook his head. “We’ve seen plenty of lover’s revenge cases and the victim has always fought back. No, I think this was something else, I just can’t place what it was.”

  They sank into an uneasy silence and Heather chased a strip of spicy chicken around her plate. Atticus hadn’t fought back. Then, how had the door broken. Perhaps, he’d tried to run and the attacker had followed. Chased him up the stairs and they’d crashed into Eva’s house.

  “Gosh,” Heather said. “This is a strange one. A murder in an unrelated house.”

  “We don’t know it’s unrelated yet,” Ryan said.

  “You’re not seriously suggesting Eva and Leila had something to do with this?”

  “Of course not. They both had alibis and I’ll hazard a guess and say neither could’ve broken down that door.” Ryan picked up a chip and gestured with it. “I just don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Me neither. What’s our next step?”

  “Solve the case.”

  “Hilarious,” Heather replied.

  Ryan cracked a grin. “We need to talk to Atticus’s girlfriend. Loretta. We should’ve known about her but we didn’t. There’s a reason for that.”

  “Do we have her number?”

  “Uh yah!” Ryan said, in a perfect imitation of the woman they’d met that afternoon. “But she’s dodging my calls. I did some research on her this afternoon. Asked around
town. I know where she’ll be tomorrow morning.”

  “You want me to go see her?”

  “Yeah, take her by surprise.” Ryan chomped down on a chip. “And take Amy with you. She’s good with freaking out suspects.”

  Heather chuckled. “That’s her point of pride.”

  Chapter 8

  Sammy’s Nail Salon wasn’t the best place to conduct an interview, but the suspect had pretty much evaded every other attempt at contact so they’d take what they could get. Luckily, Heather knew the woman who owned the place.

  Sammy had transformed over the past few months. The lengthy legal process had polished her like a river polished a pebble. She shone, her dark hair piled atop her head and her pale skin effulgent. She met them at the door to her salon, then escorted them inside.

  “How are you, Sweetheart?” It was Sammy’s nickname.

  She drew Heather into a hug. “I’m great, thank you. I’ve got my own salon and business is booming.”

  “No lingering repercussions?” Amy asked.

  “Acquitted of all charges. Self-defense.” Sammy gave her a peace sign. “Come on in. The woman you’re looking for is in a private room in the back. I made sure she got one today.”

  “You’re my hero,” Heather said.

  They walked past a few women at their tables, nails out while technicians filed, scraped, painted and polished. The smell wasn’t as rough on the nostrils as spearmint but gosh, the acetone fumes made Heather’s eyes water.

  Sammy opened the door to the private room. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  Ames and Heather moved into the room, heels clicking on the tiles.

  Loretta looked up from her chair and twiddled her toes – another technician worked on those nails. Heather had never been comfortable with folks touching her feet and couldn’t come to terms with pedicures. Amy loved them, of course.

  “W-wait a second,” Loretta said, and bolted upright. Fluid splashed from the basin at her feet and onto the technician. The woman shrieked and pawed at her cheeks.

  “Could you give us a minute?” Heather asked.

  “No, I don’t have a minute,” Loretta replied. “This is supposed to be a relaxing afternoon. Like, my boyfriend just died.”

  “She was talking to her.” Amy nodded to the technician, who lurched upright, grabbed a towel from the counter beside the chair, then rushed from the room, wiping her face.

  The door clicked shut behind her.

  “What kind of salon is this? Aren’t the guests here afforded any privacy?” Loretta folded her arms. She couldn’t run, though, she had a set of pink dividers separating her toes on either foot.

  “Loretta Beyer?” Heather asked.

  “Oh heck no. I’m not married. Certainly not to a dead man. Loretta Willows.”

  “Miss Willows, we’re here to ask you a few questions about that dead man,” Heather said, and removed her identification card from her pocket.

  “I don’t have to answer any questions.”

  “No, you don’t, but if you resist you’ll give the good officers down at the Hillside Police Department a reason to look at you, closely. Do you want them to scrutinize you, Miss Willows?”

  “I don’t know what that word means.”

  Amy tsked. “It means talk to us or you’ll be talking to a detective instead and in less comfortable circumstances. I hear they’ve got a new water cooler outside the interrogation room, though. They got a water cooler here?”

  “I – uh.” Loretta fish mouthed. Open and closed, open and closed.

  “Maybe we should check,” Amy said. “I mean, if they don’t have a water cooler in the salon surely Miss Willows would be more comfortable down at the station. We can duck waddle her over there. Doesn’t even have to take out the dividers.”

  “What do you want to know?” It came out in snake hiss.

  “Tells us about Atticus. When did you two come to Hillside and why?”

  “Atti wanted to meet up with an old friend. That was all he told me. An old friend. He kept talking about paying his dues or somethin’, I don’t know. He rambled a lot but he had money so I didn’t complain.”

  Heather restrained a sigh. Women who were after money. Wonderful. She loved dealing with people like this on a case. “And you arrived when?”

  “Couple months ago,” Loretta replied and curled her hands into her lap. “I didn’t want to come because, like, this is the back end of nowhere in comparison to Phoenix, but whatever. As soon as his will pays out I’m outta here.”

  “You’re a beneficiary?” Heather asked.

  “Now, don’t get any funny ideas, lady. I, like, don’t know if I’m beneficiary or not. We’ve only been dating for six months but I figured he’d change it for me,” she said, and curled a lock around her finger. She blinked her baby blues at them. “He loved me.”

  The feeling hadn’t been reciprocated judging by Loretta’s lack of sorrow.

  “When last did you speak with Atticus?” Heather asked. They’d have to note this all down later on. The Lenovo wasn’t unwieldy but it also wasn’t easy to text type standing.

  “Sunday night.”

  “And you didn’t think to report he was missing to the police?” Heather asked.

  “Nah. Atti did that sometimes. He’d disappear for hours at a time, sometimes days. It freaked me out in the beginning but I got used to it after a while. I found ways to entertain myself.” She twiddled her toes.

  Heather took that fact in. He’d disappeared for days at a time. They’d have to account for the hours of missing time between Sunday night and Monday morning. “Did he leave on Sunday evening?”

  “Yeah, he said he was going out to get dinner but he never came back. I had to order Pizza.” Ah, the true tragedy of this whole affair.

  Amy coughed a laugh – she’d had a similar thought, no doubt.

  “Miss Willows, is that your trailer in the back garden?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Then it belonged to Mr. Beyer?”

  “No. I don’t know who owned it. Just one day it turned up in the back garden and Atti used to go out to it for ages. Never told me what he was doing in there and I didn’t ask,” Loretta said. “As long as I’m fed and happy, I don’t need to ask any questions. You know, that’s what’s, like, important. The simple stuff in life.”

  Heather reserved comment on that. If the trailer hadn’t belonged to Loretta or Atticus, then who’d owned it? And who’d brought it to Atticus’s house in the first place.

  “Thank you for your time, Miss Willows.”

  “That’s all. You don’t want like an alibi or anything?”

  “We know where you were on Monday morning at the time of the murder,” Amy said. “Right here in this salon.”

  “That’s an invasion of privacy,” Loretta growled.

  They ignored her and walked from the private room. Miss Willows could complain about rights infringement all she wanted, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere. They’d do what it took to solve the murder, and if that meant stepping on Loretta’s perfectly pink toenails then so be it.

  Chapter 9

  Hank waited for them outside his trailer, bald pate gleaming as if he’d polished it to a shine. He tugged on the hem of his button down, short-sleeved shirt, then gave them a salute. “Good morning, ladies. Good to see you around these parts. We don’t get lovely women such as yourselves in the Best Fishin’ Camp.”

  Amy looked at Heather and gave her the ‘question mark’ expression. As in, was this guy on the level? Heather replied with an infinitesimal twitch of her head. He was cool.

  “We’re not here to enjoy the camp’s sterling facilities, I’m afraid,” Heather said, and stopped in front of the owner. “We’ve come about a case.”

  “Shoot,” Hank said, and took his handkerchief out of his top pocket. “And here I was hoping we could go fishin’. You and your husband would enjoy it here, Mrs. Shepherd. You should rent a trai
ler.”

  “Ah, and you’ve settled on the reason we need to talk to you,” Heather said. The perfect segue. “It’s come to our attention that you rent out trailers. Is that correct?”

  “Sure is,” Hank said. “How can I help?”

  “We need to know who rented out a trailer and when in the last two months,” she said. “Specifically, we need to know about people who’ve rented trailers and removed them from the Best Fishin’ Camp’s grounds.”

  “Ooh, there aren’t many of those,” Hank said. “Hold on a sec, I’ll fetch my ledger. I’d invite you inside but it’s cramped in the office. You take a seat over there. Nice and comfy, like.”

  Four chairs surrounded a plastic table outside the trailer. A sun umbrella had been placed in the center hole and shaded the green, green grass which surrounded it. Heather took a set on the chair, which has fabric straps to support the sitter’s weight, and inhaled that nature scent.

  “It’s great out here, isn’t it?” Heather asked.

  Amy sat down. “It is. You know, we should take him up on his offer. Come camping out here sometime. Jamie would love it. He’s such a nature buff.”

  “Ryan and I discussed that the last time we were out here. You know, to talk to that Danny Turnbull dude?”

  “Oh yeah,” Amy said, and pulled a face. “Bit of a –”

  Hank crashed out of his trailer and hopped off the steps. He toted a massive book in his hairy arms. “Here we go.” He stood between their seats and slapped the ledger onto the table top. The umbrella wobbled.

  “This is from the last month?” Heather asked, and barely concealed her incredulity.

  “Oh heck no. This is from the last two years. I’ll open it to the right spot.” Hank sliced his hand between the pages, separated a segment of the book and flipped it over. He traced his finger down the neatly drawn columns, then segmented again. “Here we go,” he said, at last. “These are the entries for the last two months.”

  “That’s a lot.” Amy leaned in and scanned the list of entries.

  “Oh, but you mentioned people who have rented trailers and left the park. Hold on a minute.” Hank took a pencil out of his top pocket. He hunched over the book and marked three entries. “These three took the trailer out.”