Jealousy Filled Donuts

by Ginger Bolton

  I didn’t have to add the word murder. Brent must have gotten the gist. Lips compressed, he wrote in his notebook. Then he asked again, “Are you positive you’re not injured? It’s hard to tell by looking at you.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He turned away and faced the taped-off crime scene. “Good.” He said it so quietly that I almost missed it. He asked more loudly, “Can you give me a tour without going past the tape?”

  “Yes.” I showed him where fragments of donut might be lying in the grass and pointed out what was left of the donut skyrocket. He stepped over the tape and set an orange crime scene marker on the ground beside the blackened tube and the portion of raspberry jelly–filled donut surrounding its base. I showed Brent where I’d sat to watch the fireworks and where crowds had been hurrying up the hill on both sides of Taylor and Nicholas. Brent put one marker next to the red disposable lighter and two more where Taylor and Nicholas had been sitting.

  A police photographer arrived. Brent talked to him and then returned to me. “You can go, Em. Call me if you think of anything else. If you discover you’ve been injured, get help, okay?”

  I pulled the blanket more tightly around myself. “Okay.”

  After a long, assessing look into my eyes, he returned to the police photographer.

  Scott was still hovering nearby. I asked him, “Whose blanket am I wearing?” Although the blanket had warmed me enough that I didn’t actually feel cold, I had to make an effort to control my trembling. “I don’t think you or Samantha carry plaid ones like this in your fire truck or ambulance.” I removed it from my shoulders and folded it.

  “Hooligan’s.” Hooligan was still guarding the crime scene. I reassured Scott that I’d be fine, told him good night, trudged up the hill, and plunked the blanket on the hood of Misty and Hooligan’s cruiser where they’d see it.

  The crumpled donut bag was still in my pocket. I wiped my sticky hands on the bag—kind of late, considering that I’d been handling Hooligan’s blanket—and then dumped the bag in a trash can near the cruiser. Tired and also saddened by Taylor’s death, I walked toward my car. My shoulders slumped and my head was down, but at the moment, I couldn’t care about good posture.

  I unlocked the donut car’s front door.

  A bright light flashed. Another lethal firework?

  Jerking my head up, I turned toward where the light had been. My pulse raced. I managed not to gasp, even after my eyes adjusted and I recognized the photographer who had seemed to frighten Jocelyn twice that day.

  He lowered his camera from his face.

  “I saw you,” he accused. “I saw you light the firework that injured those people.”

  Chapter 7

  I was alone on the dark side of the parking lot with this wild-eyed and accusing photographer. I could scream, but my friends across the parking lot were too far away to hear.

  Grasping the car door handle and standing as tall as I could, I snapped, “That’s impossible. You couldn’t have seen me light the firework because I didn’t do it.” Calm down, Emily. Showing your anger won’t help and could put you in danger.

  Smirking, the photographer placed a hand on the long lens of his camera.

  I pointed toward the fire truck and its floodlight. “Police officers are over there. Go tell them what you think you saw.”

  “What I know I saw.”

  “And if you have photos showing someone lighting that firework, give them to the police.” Despite my earlier warning to myself, I was still sounding angry.

  “Are you sure you want me to?”

  I swung the car door open. “Of course. I did not light that thing, and I’d like to know who did.”

  “You’re bluffing.” His voice was as oily and insinuating as the way he kept suddenly showing up where I didn’t expect him. “This morning, that woman insulted your car, and tonight, you got your revenge.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I flung myself into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and sped away.

  My anger at the photographer and his false accusations did not distract me from the sadness of Taylor’s senseless death, a death that appeared to have been deliberate murder. Who would have, who could have, done such an evil thing? And why?

  That photographer who kept popping up . . .

  I was tempted to drive home and park the 1950 donut-topped Ford in the driveway for the night so I wouldn’t have to walk home alone from the garage behind Deputy Donut.

  I couldn’t let fear rule my life.

  I parked the cruiser in its garage and then I walked quickly through the brightly lit streets of downtown Fallingbrook. My own neighborhood was almost as well illuminated, but I couldn’t help expecting murderous strangers and threatening photographers to push through hedges or race out from between houses.

  Finally, I was on my own block. With relief, I ran up the porch steps and locked myself into my sweet little cottage. Dep greeted me with heartfelt meows. I cuddled her all the way upstairs.

  I almost didn’t recognize myself in the bathroom mirror. Even after I washed the blueberry jelly off my cheek, I looked exhausted and scared. The spot on my cheek that a sugar star must have hit was only a tiny bit pink. It no longer stung, and I didn’t think there would be a bruise.

  When I was in bed, Dep tucked herself behind my knees and purred until I was able to stop picturing the night’s events and fall into a troubled sleep.

  * * *

  For a few seconds after the alarm went off in the morning, I didn’t think about Taylor and Nicholas, but then the memories surfaced, sickeningly and all at once. I had to channel those memories into something productive, or they might overwhelm me.

  Taylor’s complaints about others had been excessive, but had they been enough to make someone want to harm her?

  She had insulted my mother’s hairdresser. Could Felicia be a killer? My mother liked everybody, and my father was the same. Everyone has their good qualities, they’d often counseled me when I was a kid and upset about someone’s behavior. Let’s focus on those.

  Had my mother focused too hard on Felicia’s good qualities and failed to notice that the woman had a dangerous side?

  Taylor and her bestie, Duchess Gabrielle, seemed to have shared a love-hate relationship. Gabrielle had obviously thrived on it. Would she have wanted to end it?

  According to Gabrielle, Taylor had recently dumped Ian, the king. He had obviously been attempting to conceal his emotions before, during, and after the parade. I’d believed he’d been hiding his pain, but maybe the emotion he’d been tamping down had been rage. Had he decided that if he couldn’t have Taylor, no one could?

  And then there was Nicholas. Could he have tired of Taylor and decided to end their relationship in a drastic way?

  By claiming that he’d seen me light the firework, that sneaky photographer was admitting that he’d been there when it was lit. Had he lit it? Jocelyn seemed afraid of him, and now I was, too.

  Early dawn light filtered through windows, and Dep began scuffling with my slippers on the floor beside the bed. Before she could bat them out into the hall and down the stairs, I thrust my feet into them and picked her up. Crooning, I carried her to the kitchen. She wriggled to be put down. I obeyed. Still groggy, I fed her and made a red bell pepper omelet for myself. The sun rose as we ate.

  I showered, dressed, and checked my face in the mirror. I no longer looked horror-struck, and my cheek looked fine. No bruises. I ran downstairs, snapped Dep’s halter and leash on her, and took her outside. The morning was warm and scented with honeysuckle and roses rambling over white picket fences and trellises. Dep’s friskiness lifted my spirits. By the time we arrived in her playground, also known as our Deputy Donut office, I was almost smiling. I settled my kitty into her room and then headed into the kitchen.

  Yeast dough was rising, sending out that warm and delicious aroma. I quickly told Tom what had happened at the fireworks without mentioning how close I’d been to the explosion. About five years
had passed since Alec’s death, but both Tom and my mother-in-law, Cindy, continued to treat me like a beloved daughter, and I never wanted to worry them.

  Jocelyn came in through the storeroom. As usual, she must have parked her bike just outside the door next to the loading dock. She was wearing her Deputy Donut uniform, apron, and hat.

  And a too-bright expression on her face. “Did your friends like the donuts?” she asked.

  “They gobbled them up. I saw you at the fireworks with a hunky guy.”

  “Oh! When we were leaving, I noticed the donut car, but I didn’t see you. Sorry! I would have said hello. My boyfriend was here for a few days, but we had to leave the fireworks early. His parents took him back to Madison last night. He’s lifeguarding down there this summer.”

  “Did you meet him in high school?”

  “No. At summer games. He’s a swimmer.” She smiled proudly. “He wins a lot.”

  “Like you do.”

  “More than that. He’s really good.” She turned away and scooped coffee beans into the grinder. “I . . . I heard that something terrible happened. To Taylor.” She paused. Because her back was to me, I couldn’t see her face. “I hope it’s not true. She died?”

  I wasn’t sure how much the police were telling. “A firework hit her,” I said.

  “You always hear warnings that fireworks can kill, but I thought they were just, you know, adults exaggerating. That’s terrible. Poor Taylor. I knew her at Freeze, but I knew her in high school, too. She’s a couple of years older than I am.”

  Which meant, as I’d guessed, that Taylor’s life had been cut short at only about twenty-one. Wanting more information from Jocelyn, I made a clumsy segue. “You know a lot of people. Do you know the family who were at the picnic, the family with the little boy who was turning five?”

  She turned to face us again. Her eyes were pink rimmed while the rest of her face was pale. “Why? Did something happen to him or his family?”

  “No, but the detective I talked to last night, Brent Fyne, will probably ask you for names of people we gave donuts to at the picnic.”

  “I know a few, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Do detectives always ask such weird questions?”

  Tom chimed in. “Yep!”

  “Did you, when you were a detective?”

  “I hope so.” He flattened dough with his enormous marble rolling pin.

  Jocelyn answered my question. “I don’t know that family. I went off to look for a bigger bag, and I didn’t pay them much attention. Just that little boy. He was cute, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, and I didn’t catch even his first name.” Although I wasn’t a detective, I had another weird question. “Do you know that guy who was taking pictures in here and then later at the picnic?”

  “I know who you mean, but I don’t know him.” She turned toward the coffee grinder again.

  “I saw him after the fireworks.”

  “Maybe he’s a reporter?” Jocelyn started the grinder. No one spoke while it rumbled.

  Tom and I exchanged glances.

  He lifted one shoulder as if to say he didn’t know who the man was, either. He gave his head a quick shake, glanced at Jocelyn’s back, looked at me again, and thinned his lips. I thought he meant that we shouldn’t interfere with the police investigation, or that my questions were making Jocelyn clam up, or both. After his years as a Fallingbrook police officer, detective, and police chief, Tom was more expert at investigating and interrogating than I was. I followed his unspoken advice, at least for the moment.

  I cut out donuts and Tom fried them while Jocelyn started the first pots of coffee and then filled our cute creamers and sugar bowls. Like our mugs and plates, they were off-white ironstone with our Deputy Donut logo printed in black on them.

  Except for the police officers, our customers wanted to talk about what they called the accident at the fireworks the night before. The cops avoided the subject even when people asked. “We can’t talk about police investigations,” one said, softening his words with a smile.

  At a table beside a front window, the Knitpickers chatted and knit. At the next table, the retired men teased the Knitpickers about sitting inside on a warm and sunny day. “What?” one of the men asked in joshing tones. “You sit outside on the patio only on the days when there’s a parade going by?”

  “What about you guys?” Cheryl, a white-haired knitter who never seemed to quite finish her projects, retorted. “Why aren’t you out on the patio on a day like this?”

  One of the men winked at me. “We don’t want to wear Emily out.”

  I poured him a mug of the day’s specialty coffee, the so-called “Monsooned Voyage” Malabar from India, made from beans that had been soaked for a long time to replicate the complex flavor of beans shipped across oceans for months during damp conditions. Although it sounded potentially disgusting, it was delicious. I told the man, “The more running around I do, the more donuts I can eat.”

  “That does it!” Cheryl exclaimed. “From now on, we’re going to the counter and carrying our own food and beverages so we can eat more of your delicious donuts, Emily.”

  Virginia didn’t look up from the soft yellow baby sweater she was knitting. “I’m not. Emily doesn’t want us spilling hot coffee down people’s necks.”

  The Knitpickers and the retired men laughed. A Knitpicker accused, “You just don’t want to miss a second of knitting time.”

  Virginia deadpanned, “Guilty as charged.”

  Cheryl pulled a newspaper out of her tote and studied the front page. “Hey, Emily! You’re in the Fallingbrook News.”

  Chapter 8

  Cheryl ran a finger rapidly down the first column and then raised her head. Her usually cheerful face showed pain. “The police are saying that the death of that Fabulous Fourth Festivities queen, Taylor Wishbard, is suspicious.”

  “Like it wasn’t an accident, after all?” a Knitpicker asked.

  Cheryl’s answer was surprisingly clipped. “Yes.”

  I peered over her shoulder. The photo beside the headline showed Taylor sitting on her throne, high in the parade’s reviewing stand. Wearing her crown and a huge smile, she was waving. Everyone else was cropped out of the photo.

  Cheryl pointed at a photo near the bottom of the article. “Isn’t this you, Emily? I recognize your curls.” Horror still lurked behind her kind blue eyes, but she gave me a tightlipped attempt at a smile. “Even though they’re mostly hidden by your funny hat when you’re in here.”

  Guessing that she wanted to lighten the mood, I complained with great drama, “It’s not a funny hat. But yes, that’s me.”

  The picture was taken from my right and slightly behind me. It showed Misty looking very stern and holding my left wrist as if restraining me. This must have been the first picture the photographer took of me after the ambulance left with Taylor and Nicholas. I’d been looking at Misty, and only part of my right cheek, the one that wasn’t stained with jelly, showed. With my right hand, I was holding the edges of the plaid blanket close to my throat while also clutching the empty donut bag.

  Cheryl touched the picture of Misty’s face. “Doesn’t that police officer come in here a lot?”

  “Yes. She was checking my pulse because she thought I might also have been hurt. I wasn’t.”

  The other Knitpickers clucked. “I should hope not,” one said.

  Cheryl’s forehead wrinkled as if something worried her. “Why would they put that picture in the article, and not one of, say, a police car or an ambulance? It almost looks like she’s arresting you.”

  Whoever took that picture probably meant it to look that way. I guessed, “They never publish pictures of badly injured people, but maybe they wanted to show a first responder and a bystander.”

  Cheryl looked slightly happier. “It doesn’t say who you are, Emily, and only people who know you would recognize you.”

  Virginia gestured with a bamboo knitting needle, knitting and all, to indicate the en
tire donut shop. “Lots of people know Emily.” She started another row.

  I checked the credit with the photo. The photographer’s name was Philip Landsdowner.

  Returning to serving customers and helping Tom and Jocelyn make and decorate donuts, I wondered if Philip Landsdowner was the photographer who had taken pictures in Deputy Donut, at the parade-marshaling grounds, and at the picnic.

  As usual, the Knitpickers and the retired men departed around noon. I joined Jocelyn at their tables to pick up mugs and plates. Cheryl had left the newspaper behind.

  Jocelyn bent over it and then straightened and let her gaze meet mine. “That policewoman is your friend, right?” she asked. “And she wasn’t arresting you?”

  I smiled at the obvious concern in the nineteen-year-old’s voice. “Yes, that’s Misty, and no, she wasn’t arresting me. She was worried that I might have been hurt.”

  “Were you close to Taylor when she was . . . hurt?”

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “Not really.” I pointed at the photographer’s name below the picture of Misty and me. “Could Philip Landsdowner be the photographer who was in here yesterday morning? I saw that same man at the fairgrounds about an hour after Taylor was rushed to the hospital. He was carrying a camera.”

  Jocelyn flushed. “I don’t know. Lots of people were taking pictures at the fireworks, some with cameras and some with phones.” She picked up her tray and carried it to the kitchen.

  Had Philip Landsdowner been following Jocelyn around yesterday? It seemed just as likely that he could have been following me. Or both of us. Maybe he had simply been going from place to place, wherever he thought there might be interesting pictures for the Fallingbrook News. I took the newspaper into the office and put it on the desk.

  Blinking sleepily, Dep sat up and watched me.

  “It’s a newspaper,” I told her, “not a bed.”

  She yawned.

  Misty and Hooligan didn’t come in for their breaks, and neither did Scott, which wasn’t surprising. They’d all been working late shifts the night before. Still, I would have liked their company after the experiences we’d shared.