Lavender Grape Dust Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 32

by Susan Gillard

  “Are pets allowed in your restaurant?” Heather asked.

  “Only in the outside seating,” he said, and directed them toward a small, round table in the corner.

  “Awesome!” Lilly said. She led the way, and Cupcake and Dave made a show of prancing between the diners, their tails up. Hopefully, they stayed on their best behavior.

  “Thank you,” Heather said. She followed her daughter to the table, and sat down across from her in a wicker-backed chair.

  The greeter placed the menus on the table and bobbed his head. “Your waiter will be with you in just a moment.”

  Lilly grabbed one of the menus. “Ooh, it looks so fancy,” she said.

  “Bellissima,” Heather said, and traced the golden, curled writing on the front of the menu. “Interesting.”

  Lilly opened her menu and disappeared behind it. “Oh, they’ve got an open salmon sandwich. That’s awesome.”

  “Yum,” Heather said. “And there’s a selection of breakfast tapas.”

  The names of the different kinds of fusion cuisine made Heather’s mouth water. She hadn’t eaten anything since her donut earlier that morning.

  “I told you, I don’t like to meet in places such as this one.” A familiar accent drifted above the heads of the other diners, from a table behind theirs.

  Heather froze and cocked her head to one side. She kept her eyes on the list of food.

  “I don’t care, old man. You were supposed to convince him.” Janie Turlington’s voice carried through the crowds, impetuous in tone.

  Heather didn’t dare look.

  “I am not your slave, woman,” Herman Schulz said. “I don’t –” The final half of his sentence disappeared, lost in the chatter and clink of cutlery.

  “Mom?” Lilly peered over the edge of her menu. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Heather said. “So what are you going to order? Everything looks so good.”

  “I’m going to get the salmon sandwich. I’ve always wanted to try it,” Lilly said. “Salmon, I mean.”

  “You do realize it’s raw,” Heather replied.

  Lilly pressed her lips to one side. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “But it says it’s a smoked salmon sandwich. That means there’s some kind of cooking. It’s not totally raw, right?” Lilly asked.

  “I guess,” Heather said, and winked at her daughter.

  “Mom, are you teasing me again?”

  “Maybe a little bit,” Heather replied. But she couldn’t find mirth in the situation. Her mind drifted to the case, and she strained her ears to catch another hint of noise.

  The waiter appeared at their table, notepad in hand. “Good afternoon, ladies. What can I get for you today?”

  “Mom?” Lilly put down her menu, then bent and swept Cupcake into her lap.

  “You go first, love,” Heather said. She turned her head ever so slightly and shock jarred through her core.

  There they were. Janie Turlington, swathed in black velvet, eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses, and the short German, Herman Schulz.

  Why on earth would they risk a public meeting? It didn’t make sense.

  “And a sauce of milk for Cupcake,” Lilly said. “Mom, what would you like?”

  “I’ll take a coke and a selection of your tapas,” Heather said, and flashed the waiter a bright smile. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be right back with your drinks,” he said and gathered their menus. He tucked them under one arm and headed for the open doors which lead into the interior of the restaurant.

  “I can’t wait,” Lilly said, and rubbed her tummy. “I’m starving. It’s hard work keeping Cupcake and Dave in check.”

  A glass shattered behind them and a shocked scream rang out. Heather spun in her seat and grasped the top rail.

  “How dare you,” Janie Turlington announced. The remains of the glass lay beside her left stiletto. She crunched on it. “I won’t stand for your accusations, you horrible little man.”

  The restaurant fell silent, both inside and out. Everyone stared at the celebrity in their midst. A woman at the table next to their raised her phone and snapped a picture.

  Janie Turlington spun on her heel and stormed from the restaurant, her chin held high.

  Herman Schulz remained in his seat, his head bowed, and gaze glued to the plate of food in front of him.

  Finally, the silence broke, replaced by chatter from the tables and a muted buzz of activity inside the restaurant.

  Heather faced forward again, and placed her hands on top of the white table cloth.

  “Who was that?” Lilly asked.

  “Janie Turlington. You know, the movie star,” Heather said.

  “Oh.” Lilly shrugged her shoulders and stroked the top of Cupcake’s soft, white head. “She seemed kind of rude.”

  Heather grinned at her daughter. “She is kind of rude,” Heather replied.

  The waiter appeared again and put down their drinks – a milkshake for Lils and a soda for Heather – and they settled in to enjoy their afternoon.

  Heather pushed aside her curiosity and focused on her daughter instead. Family would always be more important than work, for her.

  Chapter 13

  Ryan checked the handcuffs at his belt, and touched the gun in its holster at his side. His police uniform stood out against the brown panels of the hall, outside Herman Schulz’s office.

  “You have the warrant?” Heather asked.

  Ryan produced the search warrant from his pocket and handed her the papers. “Came through this morning, before you and sleepy Lilly woke up.”

  “We were tired from our lunch date yesterday,” Heather said. “And the long walk afterward.” She examined the words on the official notice, then handed it back to her husband.

  She inhaled through her nose, squared her shoulders and raised her fist.

  “Go ahead,” Ryan said. He radiated confidence, the assurance that whatever he said would be enforced.

  Heather knocked once on the hard wood door, then gazed at the bronze plaque which bore Herman Schulz’s name, in bold lettering.

  “Just a moment, just a moment,” the German man said, from within. Papers rustled and footsteps thumped across the carpeting. The latch clicked and the door swung inward.

  “Mr. Schulz,” Ryan said.

  “Officer?” Herman Schulz reached up and loosened the top button of his shirt. “Please, please, come in. Take seats. It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Shepherd. Come now, come.”

  The little man turned and rushed back to his seat. He squeaked into the leather chair, with three sharp exhales from the effort.

  Heather entered the room, but didn’t take a seat, and Ryan strode in, the warrant in his grasp.

  “Mr. Schulz, we have a search warrant for your office,” he said.

  “What?” Herman Schulz spluttered and gripped the arms of his chair. “This is outrageous. This is terrible. How can you come into my personal space and intrude in such a way?”

  Ryan placed the papers on Herman’s desk, then began his search. The lawyer’s gaze trailed him around the room. “What, no. This is all confidential. Confidential files.” He slipped toward the edge of his seat.

  “Mr. Schulz,” Heather said, and her voice acted as a balm to the half-crazed German man.

  He stopped moving and focused on her instead of the actions of the detective in his office.

  “We know you met with Thaddeus in the week leading up to his death,” Heather said. The timing was a total guess, but it struck a note with the lawyer.

  He pressed three fingers to the center of his forehead. “I knew I should have told you when you first visited me.”

  Ryan rifled through the papers in Herman’s in tray. He pulled out one notice and read it, then the other.

  Herman should’ve been escorted from the room during the process, but Heather and Ryan had discussed this before they’d entered. She’d insisted Herman r
emain in the office.

  This tactic, this added pressure on a man obsessed with confidentiality, would surely get him to open up.

  “Told me what?” Heather asked, and grasped the back of the visitor’s chair.

  “I met with Thaddeus before his death,” Herman said.

  “Did it have something to do with the argument you had yesterday, with Janie Turlington?” Heather asked.

  “What? Nein. How did you know about that?” Herman asked, he dropped his arm to his side and exhaled through his nose. “It matters not. I met with Janie to ask her to speak with the police and come clean. I believe she is the one who must have murdered her father.”

  “Wait a second,” Ryan said, without looking up from the notices and documents on the desk. “Why did you speak with Thaddeus?”

  “It wasn’t to change his will,” Herman replied. “It was – first, it was to warn him that Janie wanted the will changed and that she would stop at nothing to see it done.” He pushed the ashtray to one side.

  “At first?”

  “Ja. He got angry after I told him this and began to scream at me. He told me that my services were no longer needed,” Herman replied.

  “That must have made you furious,” Heather said, and slipped a tinged of sympathy into her tone.

  “Furious,” Herman said, and grasped the handle of his drawer. “Yes, I was furious. Let me save you the time in your investigation and give you this.” He produced a page from his desk and handed it to Heather.

  “What is it?”

  “The letter I drafted and sent to Thaddeus Turlington hours before his death. I stipulated that my services would no longer be available to him if he dared to treat me in such an undignified manner, ever again.” Herman pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then I woke up the very next day and Thaddeus is gone and all I am left with is Janie Turlington’s constant calls.”

  “She still calls you?” Heather asked.

  Ryan continued his search, though he’d slowed and hadn’t opened the filing cabinet in the corner, yet. This was all for show – the real detective work would come later, after Herman had been removed from the office.

  “Ja, every day. She calls to ask me about the will and what I can do to help her contest it,” Herman said.

  “And are you helping her?”

  “No. I find her detestable and I am positive she is the one who killed her father,” Herman replied.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because she makes threats whenever she doesn’t get her own way, and I know she was there on the night of his murder. I saw her enter the Hillside Manor after I left,” Herman said. “I greeted her but she ignored me, as is her way.”

  “Do you know anything else?” Heather asked, and she phrased it in that ‘do-or-die’ tone. This was his last chance to come clean before he was cleared from the office. “Anything at all?”

  “Nothing,” Herman replied. He grasped a box of cigarettes and drew a long, white one out. He fumbled around for a lighter. “Nothing at all.”

  “Thank you,” Heather said. She risked a small smile, then turned on her heel and walked to the door.

  Her part of the ‘operation’ was complete.

  Chapter 14

  “You just can’t stay away,” Jung said and stopped beside their table. “Sheesh, boss. I thought you were supposed to be taking the week off.”

  “I am,” Heather said. “But my idea of a vacation is spending time here. It’s the most relaxing place in the world.” She toasted her assistant by raising a purple-dusted donut.

  She needed to unwind after her interview with Herman Schulz. Police work or not, the whole affair had smacked of bullying in a way.

  Would Herman have owned up to his disagreement with Thaddeus, otherwise?

  “Sometimes, the end justifies the means,” Heather muttered.

  “Pardon, dear?” Eva touched Heather’s forearm.

  She snapped back to the present and met the gaze of her oldest friend and best customer, Eva Schneider. The woman’s plum hairdo wobbled each time she moved.

  “Nothing. I was just lost in thought,” Heather said and took a bite of her donut. She’d eaten more than she usually did in a week, but this was her vacation. Why not? “I’m just thinking about the case and my day.”

  “Speaking of your case,” Eva said and grabbed a folded newspaper from the corner of the table. “Guess what I found.”

  “Oh no, what is it?”

  “Remember that horrible reporter, Roger Lorde? That one who sat down in my seat?” Eva asked. She’d never forgive the man that particular transgression.

  “How could I forget?” Heather asked.

  “Well, he managed to find material for that article he mentioned,” Eva said, and passed Heather the folded up newspaper.

  She dropped her donut to her plate and took it with sticky fingers. “Oh gosh,” Heather said. “Do I even want to know what he’s written?”

  “Front page, dear.” Eva picked up her mug and took a sip of her bitter coffee. Eva’s habits didn’t change, day in and day out. Bitter coffee, a donut and a copy of the Hillside Reporter.

  The only strange thing they’d happened upon was a Mustang in Eva’s garage.

  Heather flipped the newspaper open and flicked it once to straighten the creases in the page.

  THADDEUS TURLINGTON THE SCROOGE.

  “The Scrooge?” Heather muttered, and read through the page. “It says he was mean. That he was cruel to people around him.”

  “I know,” Eva said and sighed. “It’s disappointing to realize the people we idolize aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. We are all people, after all. But how we treat others is the real indication of who we are, famous or not.”

  Heather pressed the page flat on the glass top of the table. “Thaddeus Turlington was renowned the world over for his movie performances in the fifties. His hit films influenced a generation of actors, many of whom would be disappointed to hear that his attitude stinks.” Heather coughed into her fist. What terrible phrasing.

  “Read on,” Eva said and drank some more of her coffee.

  The constant hum of happy customers, laughing and talking, gave a backdrop to their conversation. One which didn’t suit the crawling unease in the pit of Heather’s stomach.

  “Thaddeus never tipped the help and would often go out of his way to mentally torture his staff –” Heather cut off and focused on a point past Eva’s shoulder.

  The elderly woman turned and looked behind her. “What is it, dear?”

  “Nothing. I just – I think something clicked into place in my brain. One of the puzzle pieces. Thaddeus was mean. He had a box of pranks,” Heather said. “There’s something in that. I just can’t see it yet.”

  She turned her gaze back to the paper and scanned for more information. The image which topped the page wasn’t one of Thad’s fancy autographed pictures, but a shot of him in bed at Hillside Manor, eyes narrowed at the photographer.

  “He sure looks mean in that photo, doesn’t he?” Eva asked.

  “The photo,” Heather said. “Who on earth took this photo? It has to be recent. How did Roger get it?”

  Eva didn’t provide an answer but leaned in to take a closer look.

  Heather grabbed her handbag and brought out her cell. She unlocked the screen and scrolled through to the number of the offices of the Hillside Reporter, then pressed the green icon.

  “I’ll get to the bottom of this,” she said, and pressed the phone to her ear.

  It rang once. “Hillside Reporter, Jessica speaking,” a woman said. The receptionist.

  “This is Heather Shepherd. Can you put me through to Roger Lorde’s desk?”

  The woman on the other end of the line hesitated. Fabric scraped across the receiver, followed by muffled speech.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  The line cleared again. “Yeah, just a second. He’s heading to his desk now.”

  A click, and then a horrible tinny re
ndition of Memory by Barbra Streisand, danced through the phone. Heather lifted it from her ear and pursed her lips.

  “I’ve never understood why people do this,” she said. “Ringing would be less annoying.”

  “I agree,” Eva replied.

  “Hello? This is Roger Lorde,” the man boomed on the phone.

  Heather pressed it to her ear again. “Mr. Lorde. This is Heather Shepherd.”

  “Heather Shepherd? I don’t know a Heather Shepherd,” Roger said. “At least, I don’t have any friends named Heather Shepherd.”

  “I don’t have time for coy games, Mr. Lorde. I’m calling in an official capacity on behalf of the Hillside Police Department. Is that clear?”

  A hesitation. “Crystal,” Roger said. He’d dropped the triumphant trumpet tone, at least.

  “Where did you get the image for your article on the front page, this morning?” Heather asked.

  “Oh, you like that, do you?” Lorde asked, and his pride swelled in her ear.

  Oh boy, this man had serious insecurity issues. Or was it a superiority complex?

  “Not in the slightest. But I do need to know where you got this photo and how. And when it was taken,” Heather replied.

  It was too much of coincidence – the fury in Thaddeus’ gaze, the exact arrangement of autographed pictures behind his headboard, down to the rich, purple curtains in front of his windows.

  “My sources are –”

  “Are you impeding a police investigation?” Heather asked. “I believe that’s a crime.” Amy would’ve been so proud.

  “No, of course not. I – look, I got the picture from the son, okay. Kevin Turlington. I interviewed him yesterday, and he was more than happy to give it to me.”

  Heather’s lip peeled back. Doubt flittered in her gut. “Kevin, the sole heir to the Turlington empire, was happy to give you an image for your slam article about his father?”

  “Okay, so maybe he didn’t know it was a negative article,” Roger said. “But I had to get a picture. I told a little white lie. Big deal. It was for the greater good.”

  “The greater good?” Heather contained her anger beneath a thin veneer of serenity. “You call upsetting a family in grieving for the greater good?”