Jealousy Filled Donuts

by Ginger Bolton

  I couldn’t tell myself that it was none of my business. If I wanted to matchmake—and, apparently, I did—I had to believe that the romantic notions of my friends were my business.

  Thinking about Brent’s original question, I frowned. “How do you know I was the one who threw out the bag?” When I’d left him and started toward my car, Brent had been talking to the police photographer and, as far as I knew, had not been facing me. Had the police photographer watched me walk away and throw out the bag?

  Brent gave me another of his assessing, policeman-like looks, the kind that often meant he wasn’t going to respond to my questions. This time, though, he did, with very few words and a lack of facial expression. “You were seen.”

  If Brent had seen me toss the bag in the trash can, he would have said, I saw you, not, You were seen. I asked, “Who saw me?”

  Brent continued examining my face but didn’t answer.

  I ran a finger along the smooth granite countertop. “I think I know, and it goes with what I called you about. Shortly after I threw out that bag, a photographer who had been taking pictures of the festivities all day claimed he saw me light the firework. He couldn’t have, because I didn’t. I told him to go find police officers at the scene and tell you his accusations, and I also said he should give you pictures of me lighting it, of whoever he saw lighting it.”

  Maybe I was being too adamant. I thought I saw Brent’s lips twitch. I asked less forcefully, “Did he give you photos?”

  “Only a description.”

  “That figures.”

  Brent didn’t acknowledge my comment. Instead, he paged back in his notebook. “I saw you last night, but can you refresh my memory? What were you wearing?”

  “Navy blue pants, a red and white striped blouse, a red cardigan, and red sneakers. By the time you arrived, I had a green and brown plaid blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I took that off only moments before I threw out the bag. The blanket was Hooligan’s, so I left it on the cruiser that he and Misty were using.” And I hope it wasn’t terribly sticky....

  “Navy blue pants?” Brent repeated. “Jeans?”

  “No. Just plain, regular pants. Like khakis, but not khaki.”

  “Did you carry a bag?”

  “Only my usual backpack. And when I arrived at the fairgrounds, I was carrying that paper bag of a dozen donuts, in my hand, not in my backpack.”

  “Would they have fit?”

  “Not without crushing them. A half dozen would have, though. Plus a birthday candle. But I wasn’t the one who brought the birthday boy’s stack of donuts to the fireworks.”

  In past years, Brent had interrogated me about other cases. I should have been used to the way he looked and acted when he was on duty, but this time his constant examination of my face was disconcerting. To give myself something to look at besides his questioning expression, I eased off my stool and topped up his coffee without asking if he wanted more. “Yesterday was Independence Day, and many people were dressed more or less alike in blue pants or jeans and red and white tops. I’m short. So is Jocelyn, not that she would ever hurt anyone. Gabrielle, the woman who was the duchess for yesterday’s festivities, is, too. Last night, all three of us were wearing blue pants and red tops. We all have dark hair. Both of them had pinned their hair up, and their long hair could have looked short in the dark. I’m the only one with lots of curls, though.” Disordered ones, most of the time.

  His gaze rested on those disordered curls, and I thought I caught another glimpse of warmth in those enigmatic gray eyes. “Were you wearing anything on your head last night, Em?”

  “No.”

  “Before I got there?”

  “No.”

  “Not a hood?”

  “No, but as the evening became chilly, I wished I’d brought a hoodie. I didn’t notice if Jocelyn’s and Gabrielle’s tops had hoods. If they did, the hoods were not covering their hair, at least when they were walking toward the cars shortly before the end of the fireworks.”

  Brent glanced at my hair again as if to confirm that it really was very dark brown, and then he wrote in his notebook.

  On the floor, Dep pursued a jingly ball that kept mysteriously rolling away from her.

  I asked, “Did the photographer say I was wearing blue jeans and a hood? That the person he saw lighting the skyrocket was wearing them?”

  “We’re not sure what he saw. We’re not sure he’s sure.”

  “I’m sure he’s not sure. But I can think of a reason for him to pretend he is.”

  Brent’s stare into my eyes was almost painfully intense. “What is it?”

  This time, I managed not to look away. “He’s protecting the person who lit the firework, maybe a short friend in jeans and a red hoodie. Or maybe he’s making up stories to protect himself, which I find much more likely than that he saw anyone else light it.”

  Brent asked softly, “Are you angry?”

  Dep meowed and jumped up onto my lap.

  “Of course I’m angry.” Stroking Dep was calming me, however. “Not at you. That photographer came out of nowhere. The first thing yesterday morning, he was taking pictures inside Deputy Donut, and then he kept showing up, and this will sound self-centered, but he often aimed his camera at me. I have no idea why a complete stranger would have singled me out that way. And someone, I don’t know if it’s the same photographer, took a picture that’s on the front page of today’s Fallingbrook News. It shows Misty in uniform, and she’s holding my wrist. She was checking my pulse, but from her serious expression, anyone looking at the picture might think she was arresting me. And I had a feeling that the picture was published to encourage people to think that.”

  “I haven’t seen that paper, but I understand why a picture like that could worry you.”

  “Thanks. I have the paper at work.”

  “Can you save it for me in case I don’t find a copy?”

  “Okay.” Holding Dep against my heart, I told Brent about Jocelyn making herself scarce whenever the photographer appeared. “She seemed frightened of him when he first showed up yesterday morning.”

  Brent had started closing his notebook. He opened it. “Any idea why?”

  “She wouldn’t say. She claimed that she didn’t know him and didn’t know his name. I’m guessing he’s the photographer credited in the article in today’s Fallingbrook News, Philip Landsdowner.”

  “That’s the man who claims he saw you throw out the bag.” Brent pocketed his notebook, gulped down his coffee, and stood. “I’m sorry. I’d like to talk longer . . .” He paused, glanced toward my mop of curls again, and added quickly, “About your impressions of this Landsdowner, but I’ll have to go back to the office to hear what other investigators have learned, and tell them what you’ve told me.” Dep jumped down to the floor.

  I walked Brent to the front door. Mewing, Dep came along.

  Beside the closed door, Brent placed both hands on my shoulders. He stared into my eyes for a burning second until I had to look past him at the blank door. “Be careful, Em,” he said quietly. “Especially around Landsdowner if he shows up again.” His hands dropped to my upper arms. He held them with a firm grip.

  Staring down at Dep doing figure eights around our ankles, I nodded. “Okay,” I said in case he didn’t see the nod.

  “And call if you need help. Any time of the night or day, okay?”

  “Okay. Or if I think of or learn anything else.”

  “You know the drill.”

  The slight smile in his voice encouraged me to risk looking up at him again. “Yes.”

  He unnerved me with another quick detective-like assessment, and then he gave my arms a quick squeeze and let go. Suddenly all business, he turned and reached for the doorknob. “Lock up.”

  He nearly always said that. I agreed. He left. I locked the door.

  “Meow,” Dep said.

  I picked her up and carried her to the kitchen. Mechanically, I tidied up.

  Something in Bre
nt’s and my relationship had gone off kilter, and I wasn’t sure what I thought about the change. He was always observant, but several times that night he’d spent longer moments than usual studying my face.

  The subtle shift had begun shortly after I’d mentioned that I was trying to throw Scott and Misty together. I’d toyed with the idea that Brent was interested in Misty, but I wasn’t certain that was it.

  Had Brent believed that I was actually considering dating Scott, and when he found out that I wasn’t, had he wondered if I wanted to date him? Brent?

  And did I?

  I closed the dishwasher with more force than I meant to. “It was your imagination,” I informed Dep. “There were no sparks flying between Brent and me, not when he asked me about matchmaking, not when he stared at me for longer than usual, not when I stared back, and not right before he left, when, if he’d hugged me, I would have hugged him back, maybe more warmly than ever before.” Why was my face heating when there was no one with me besides Dep?

  “Meow,” she said.

  “Now that he knows I’m not interested in dating Scott, why would he think I might want to date anyone?”

  “Mew.”

  “I don’t, you know. I might never want to.”

  Dep licked a shoulder.

  I explained, “Since Brent and I reestablished our friendship, we’ve been casually affectionate with each other, just like we were when Alec was still around and we were all good friends. That’s all it was tonight. Nothing has changed. I’m just tired and overwrought.”

  Dep stopped smoothing her fur. Leaving the tip of her tongue sticking out, she gave me a goofy, wide-pupiled stare for a second, and then she licked her shoulder again, faster.

  I added, “Besides, if we’re going to think about Brent, we should ponder what we might know or could learn that would help him figure out who intentionally harmed Taylor.”

  “Meow.”

  “Because it certainly was not me.”

  Dep mewed again and stood up with her front paws just barely touching my shins. I picked her up, carried her to the wing chair in the living room, and opened the book I’d left beside the chair. She purred on my lap. Both of us probably stopped thinking about Brent.

  Probably.

  I definitely stopped thinking about him and his investigation later, after I finally fell asleep.

  Chapter 11

  The Knitpickers did not usually get together in Deputy Donut on weekends, so I was surprised the next morning, Saturday, when Cheryl and Virginia came in. Catching my eye, Virginia laid a folded newspaper on the table.

  Before I could open my mouth to ask what I could get them, Virginia told me, “You’re all over the newspaper today, Emily.”

  I couldn’t help sighing.

  I didn’t want to look at the paper, but Virginia stabbed her finger down onto it. “You’re famous!”

  Great. “For making delicious donuts, I hope.”

  She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “That’s partly it.”

  She unfolded the newspaper to show me the Saturday feature, a pictorial essay that filled the paper’s center two pages. The headline was FALLINGBROOK’S FABULOUS FOURTH FESTIVITIES. Cheryl inched her chair closer to Virginia’s.

  I quickly skipped to the bottom of the page. Philip Landsdowner was credited for all of the photos.

  “You’re not in every photo, Emily,” Cheryl told me.

  I grinned at her. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  Smiling back, she flapped her hand at me. “Oh, you!”

  The photo in the top left corner was taken in Deputy Donut before the parade. It showed Tom and me pretending to glare while pointing at each other. Our fingers were blurred, making it obvious that we were shaking them.

  Cheryl quipped, “That’s the first time I ever saw Chief Westhill actually threaten you, Emily.”

  “We were only teasing each other.”

  Cheryl’s white curls bobbed when she laughed. “We figured. But you look about to punch him in the nose.”

  “Never.” I bent forward for a better look. “Something’s wrong with that picture.” Seconds after it was taken, Jocelyn had fled to the storeroom, but when Tom and I were shaking our fingers at each other and heard those first clicks and whirrs, Jocelyn had been close to Tom and me.

  Jocelyn was not in the picture.

  I knew the layout of our shop perfectly, knew how it looked from every angle, but I still had to go check. I took Cheryl’s and Virginia’s orders and told them I’d be right back.

  Careful not to plow into customers, tables, or chairs, I hurried to the serving counter and paused for a second where Philip Landsdowner had been when he took the picture.

  No wonder it had looked wrong. Landsdowner—or someone—had cut Jocelyn out of the center of the picture and had also cut out the espresso machine behind her. Then the person who had edited the picture had pasted a section of blank wall in the space where Jocelyn and the espresso machine had been.

  I returned to Cheryl and Virginia. Pouring the day’s special coffee, an almost chocolaty full-bodied medium roast from Sumatra, into their mugs, I told them that the photographer had removed the espresso machine from the picture. I didn’t think it was necessary to tell them that he had also removed Jocelyn.

  “Artistic license,” Virginia concluded. “With your espresso machine in the photo, the background would have been too busy. A plain background shows you and Tom better.”

  “And the way you two were about to trade punches.” Cheryl wasn’t letting that thought go, but she was smiling.

  “Sure,” I joked. I returned to the serving counter for the donuts that Cheryl and Virginia had consented to try, raised maple ones filled with medium Wisconsin cheddar.

  As I gave them their plates, Virginia pointed at the next photo in the feature. “Where was that one taken?”

  “At the parade-marshaling grounds out near the falls.”

  “Isn’t that the woman who was crowned queen?” Cheryl asked. “The poor dear, may she rest in peace. What was she doing with a megaphone?”

  I put Taylor in a better light than she’d put herself. “She was apologizing for being late.”

  “She looks like she’s complaining about your donut car. Look at that scowl on her face. And you’re scowling as much as she was.” Imitating me in the picture, Cheryl made an angry face and folded her arms.

  “I was perplexed. Until that moment, I’d never met anyone who didn’t want to ride in, and preferably drive, our donut car.”

  “Well . . .” Virginia pointed at another picture. “In this one, you’re driving your donut car, Emily, and you’re still frowning.”

  “That’s my serious expression. Driving is serious.”

  Cheryl nudged the paper with the blunt end of her purple aluminum knitting needle. “No wonder you thought you had to scowl like that. Who’s that in the seat behind you, and why is he snarling?”

  “That’s Nicholas, Thursday’s duke. The duchess, Gabrielle, was in the other rear seat, and Nicholas didn’t seem to like what she was saying.” None of the three of us in that car looked particularly happy. Outsiders glancing at the photos might conclude that the Fallingbrook Fabulous Fourth Festivities had begun with everyone grumping at everyone else.

  Cheryl bit into her donut. “Yum, try your donut, Virginia. I wasn’t sure about mixing cheese with maple, but that surprising little bite of cheese inside is buttery and delicious.”

  Virginia took a small bite, and then another. “This might be my new favorite. You could even add some crispy bits of bacon.”

  “That sounds good.” I glanced toward Tom and Jocelyn, decorating donuts and chatting to each other at the worktable in the kitchen. “We’ll have to try it.”

  Cheryl aimed a knitting needle at another photo. It showed Queen Taylor and King Ian riding on top of the back seat of Taylor’s convertible. Ian was frowning or squinting in the bright sunshine. Waving at flag-bearing parade watchers, Taylor was smilin
g. “It’s quite plain why that poor dear queen didn’t want to ride in your donut car,” Cheryl concluded. “No offense to your car, but it’s not a convertible. Royalty needs to see and be seen.”

  Luckily, I wasn’t being seen in all of the pictures. Besides the one of Taylor and Ian in Taylor’s convertible, there was a photo of the high school band on their float, one of serious-faced bagpipers with their cheeks puffed out, and two pictures of cute kids sitting on curbs, their eyes huge as they watched the parade.

  Other photos showed the picnic. Cheryl homed in on one of me in front of the table where Jocelyn and I had handed out donuts. I was wearing disposable food handlers’ gloves and holding a stack of jelly-filled donuts in both hands. “Carrying donuts is apparently as serious as driving,” Cheryl joked. “Look at that frown!”

  I argued, “I wasn’t frowning.”

  “You’re not smiling.”

  I informed her with my best fake haughty expression, “I was concentrating on not dropping any donuts.”

  Virginia tilted her head and stared hard at the photo. “Where was that taken?”

  I saw why she wondered. This picture had also been strangely edited. “At the table we were assigned for the picnic.” I pointed toward Deputy Donut’s northern wall. “It was on the east side of the village square.”

  She asked, “How did the police station get behind you?”

  Cheryl retorted, “Someone picked it up and moved it.”

  “Not physically,” I said, “but the photographer must have cut the actual background out of that picture, too. It should be grass and bunting-wrapped trees, with bouncy castles beyond them, not the police station.”

  Virginia pushed her glasses up her nose. “So, this time, the photographer inserted a background that was almost as busy as the original, maybe busier. He must have had a reason, but I can’t understand it. I wouldn’t call it artistic license. Non-artistic license would be more like it. The only thing I can think of is that the photographer or the newspaper wanted to make it clear that the picnic was in Fallingbrook. Our historic police building is famous all around here.”