Mint Chip Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 6

by Susan Gillard

  Grabbing a hairnet, slipping it over her hair, and tying on an apron, she joined Ken at the counter, where he was cheerfully filling customers’ orders for donuts. Jung worked alongside him, but Heather knew Jung preferred to make donuts rather than help run the register.

  “I’ve got it. You can go see if Maricela and Angelica need anything,” Heather said.

  “Thanks,” Jung said. “Holler if you need me.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Heather and Ken were kept busy serving the customers who arrived in a steady stream, ordering donuts, then lingering at the wrought iron tables and chairs as they enjoyed a brief respite from their busy lives. When the pace began to slow down, Heather grabbed a coffee pot and circulated among the tables, refilling people’s cups.

  Interacting with her customers was Heather’s favorite part of her job. To her, that’s what owning a business was all about, providing her customers with an experience where they felt that not only their money was valued, but they were valued. And you just couldn’t communicate that if you stayed behind the counter all the time.

  When she’d refilled everyone’s cup that wanted a refill and brought two more donuts to a couple who had decided to try another gourmet flavor, Heather slipped back into the kitchen. “Everything okay back here?” she asked.

  “Everything’s fine,” Ken said. “Actually, I have something for you.”

  “For me? What is it?”

  “I’ll get it,” Ken said. He walked over to the employees’ lockers that were tucked in the back corner of the kitchen and came back carrying something on a tray. “It’s a coffee cake,” he said, presenting it to her. “My wife made this to thank you for hiring me on permanently.”

  “That was nice of her,” Heather said, accepting the platter, “but she didn’t have to do that. You’re an amazing employee. I’m lucky to have you.”

  Ken ducked his head and smiled. “I told her you knew how to bake,” he said, “but she insisted.”

  “I know how to make donuts,” Heather said. “I don’t know how to bake. Big difference.” She glanced at the front counter and saw there was no line of customers waiting. “Let’s take this into my office, and everyone can have a piece. Somebody grab napkins and a knife, will you?”

  They all crowded into the office that wasn’t really big enough for five people but somehow held them all. Heather cut slices of the coffee cake and passed them out. When each of her employees had one, she served herself a piece and took a bite.

  “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed as the buttery cinnamon flavor rolled across her tongue. “This is fantastic!”

  “Thank you,” Ken said. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

  “Tell her I need the recipe,” Heather said. “We need to turn this into a donut.”

  “How are you going to turn it into a donut?” Ken asked.

  “Mmm,” she said, licking her lips to catch any stray traces of brown sugar. “We start out with a medium-weight cake donut and top it with chopped pecan crumbles and a brown sugar-cinnamon-butter glaze. We can call them Cinnamon Crumbles.”

  “You’re going to make a donut from my wife’s recipe?”

  “If she doesn’t mind,” Heather said.

  “Mind? She’ll be thrilled.”

  “Great,” Heather said, taking another bite of coffee cake and rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Mmm. Okay, I better get back out front before I sit down in here and eat this entire thing myself.”

  As she approached the glass cases where they displayed the luscious donuts for sale, the door opened, and a group of teenagers walked in, chattering and laughing. Heather glanced at the clock and saw that it was 8:30. Hadn’t school already started? Well, maybe not.

  “Good morning. What can I get for you today?” she asked with her friendliest smile.

  But even as she filled their order, her mind wasn’t on the donuts they chose or the drinks they purchased. Instead, her thoughts were focused on another group of teenagers she hadn’t even met. Teenagers with a gun and some drugs. Teenagers who might have killed Kelly Carlson.

  ***

  Heather wasn’t sure what made her decide to take a break and drive past Shear Beauty. It wasn’t as if she thought she could find some clue that the police had missed. But something—that curiosity gene again?—prompted her to head down Lakeridge and turn in to the parking lot.

  The yellow crime scene tape was gone, which didn’t surprise her. She figured the police would have gotten everything they needed before they left yesterday. Pulling into a parking spot directly in front of Shear Beauty, Heather put the car in park and sat there thinking. It probably wouldn’t hurt for her to get a glimpse inside. Despite having patronized the dry cleaner next door for years, she’d never been into the salon.

  Heather got out and stepped up onto the sidewalk. Would anybody think it was strange for her to be there? No, they’d probably just think she didn’t know the shop was closed. Maybe they’d think she had an appointment to get her hair done.

  She approached the plate glass window on which bright orange and yellow window art proclaimed Special! Ladies’ hair cuts $20. Men’s $15. Children’s $12. Cupping her hands around her face, she leaned toward the window until her nose touched the glass and peered inside.

  It looked just like any other hair salon she had ever seen. There were two sinks, two client chairs and stylist workstations, and two hair dryer chairs. Black plastic chairs with metal legs where customers could sit and wait for their turn lined the front wall on either side of the door. A coffee table held magazines. A plastic plant stood in one corner.

  Heather jumped as a young woman came out of what Heather assumed was the stock room carrying a bag. “We’re closed!” the young woman called out, her voice faint through the glass.

  “I don’t want a haircut,” Heather said, trying to strike a balance between making her voice audible to the employee and not broadcasting her business to anyone who might be walking by.

  “I just want to ask you something.”

  The young woman came to the front door, turned the lock, and opened the door a crack. “We’re closed,” she repeated. “Sorry.”

  “I know,” Heather said. “I know what happened here. I just had a question.”

  “What’s your question?”

  “Could I come in?” Heather asked.

  At first, the young woman hesitated, and Heather thought she was going to tell her to go away. But then the woman stepped back, pulled the door open further, and allowed Heather in. “Let’s go in the back room,” she said. “I don’t want anyone to see us talking and think we’re open.”

  Heather followed her into the stock room, where the light was already on. “I’m Heather Janke,” she said.

  “I’m Lisa,” she said. “Lisa Giddings. Look, I’m not sure how you think I can help you, but I didn’t want to try to have this conversation through the front window.”

  “I appreciate that,” Heather said. “I was just wondering…are you still going to keep the shop open?”

  Lisa shook her head. “Nope. It wasn’t my shop. I just worked for Kelly. It’s up to her family what they want to do with it. They said they’re thinking about it. So right now, I’m out of a job.”

  “Could you set up your own salon?”

  “If I had the money,” she said. “But I don’t have anyone to get me started in business like Kelly did.”

  “Do you know if Kelly had any enemies?” Heather asked. “Somebody who hated her enough to do this?”

  “I don’t know,” Lisa said, shrugging. “I mean, I guess nobody gets along with everybody.”

  “Any unhappy customers?”

  Lisa’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know all this?” she asked. “Are you with the police?”

  “I just wanted to see if Shear Beauty was going to stay open,” Heather said. “I figure if Kelly’s customers were pretty happy with her, then her family might consider reopening the shop. I know my friend Amy Givens came to Kelly
for years. She loved Kelly’s work.”

  “Oh, you’re Amy’s friend?” Lisa asked. “I know Amy. Kelly cut her hair, but I knew her. She was always so much fun to talk to. I’ll miss her. Actually, I’ll miss all the customers. Except Lana Sturmer.”

  “Lana wasn’t one of your nicest customers?” Heather probed.

  “To say the least,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes. “Every time she came in here, she acted like she was queen of the world or something. She was so full of herself and that daughter of hers. Emily competed in beauty pageants. I think she might have even won a couple. Lana always brought her here to get her hair done before a pageant. And believe me, everything had to be just perfect, or it would be our fault her Emily didn’t win.”

  “No pressure,” Heather said.

  “I know, right? Emily was as sweet as could be. But not Lana. Kelly spent way more time on Emily’s hair than she should have to, just to make sure Lana was satisfied. And Lana left here happy every time. Even the last time Kelly did Emily’s hair, Lana was happy with it. But then she came in the next day and started screaming at Kelly in front of the other customers. Apparently, Emily only got runner-up, and Lana said it was all Kelly’s fault.”

  “Why didn’t Kelly just fire Lana as a client?”

  “That’s what I wondered. But she never did. Well, I guess Lana will have to find another hairstylist to yell at now.” Lisa’s face was suddenly sad. She clamped her lips together, and Heather saw tears in her eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Heather said. “I’m sorry. I hope things work out, either here, or wherever you decide to work next.”

  Lisa nodded, barely looking at her.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Heather said. Lisa sniffled and turned away.

  Heather walked quietly to the front door of Shear Beauty and let herself out.

  Chapter 4

  When Heather made it back to Donut Delights, she’d been gone much longer than she’d anticipated. “Sorry I was gone so long,” she said as she hurried in through the back door.

  “No problem,” Jung said, hooking a thumb back over his shoulder towards the dining room. “You have a visitor.”

  Heather stepped forward, craning her neck so she could see into the dining room. She spotted Ryan sitting at a table near the window, leaning toward…Eva?

  At that moment, her favorite customer looked up and smiled. Heather saw her say something to Ryan, and then Ryan turned and caught sight of her.

  Wait a minute. Was that a guilty look on his face? Why would he feel guilty about sitting and chatting with an elderly woman whose friendship he knew Heather enjoyed?

  But the guilty look was gone, replaced by the smile she loved so much. Ryan stood up and met her at the counter. “Hey, Beautiful. I was hoping you’d be back soon. I only have a minute left before I have to get back to work.”

  “Hey, yourself,” she said. “Busy day?”

  “Yep. Would you mind bagging up a couple donuts for me to take with me?”

  “A cop eating donuts?” Heather teased. “Who ever would have thought?”

  “It’s something they teach us in the academy,” Ryan said.

  “Donuts 101.”

  Heather laughed. “What flavors do you want?”

  “Whatever’s good today.”

  She glanced down her nose at him, which was harder to do since he was several inches taller than she was. “Everything’s good,” she said.

  “Of course it is,” Ryan said. “My bad. Just give me two of whatever you recommend.”

  “Any new developments you can tell me about?” she asked, carefully placing a Southern Pecan Pie donut in a bag.

  “Make it two of those,” Ryan said.

  “Those look great.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “As for what I can tell you, I can say that we’re waiting on autopsy results for answers to some questions. Can’t say much more than that.”

  “Did you know about Lana Sturmer having an argument with Kelly?”

  “We know. The question is, how do you know?”

  “I drove by Shear Beauty, and Lisa was there,” she answered.

  “I asked her if the shop was going to stay open. I was curious on Amy’s behalf. Amy’s gotten her hair done there for years. Once Lisa found out I knew Amy, we got to talking about the murder, and she told me.”

  “Just be careful,” Ryan said. “We need room to do our jobs. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I wasn’t trying to do your job,” Heather said. “I was there, we were talking, and I asked a few questions.”

  “I know,” Ryan said with a sigh.

  “I know.”

  “Is there something wrong with what I did?” A frown creased Heather’s forehead.

  “I’m not sure this is the place to be having this discussion,” Ryan said.

  “Then let’s go have it in my office.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  Ryan walked around the end of the counter and followed her to her office. She closed the door behind them, and they both sat down. She plunked the bag with his donuts onto the desk next to him. “So what’s going on?” she asked.

  He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, gaze directed at the floor. His classic “thinking” pose. She waited for him to speak. In a moment, he looked up, and his eyes met hers. “You’re not a professional,” he said. “If you get involved with a murder investigation, it could compromise the perceived purity of the evidence and the impartiality of the investigation.”

  “What? I wouldn’t compromise any evidence.”

  “You wouldn’t mean to,” Ryan said. “But a good defense attorney could look at the fact that you’re my girlfriend, and I knew you were investigating. He could claim that I was encouraging you to act in an official police capacity, which would get me in a lot of trouble. He could also claim that witnesses’ testimony was improperly influenced or even improperly gained because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “So what am I supposed to do if I’m talking to somebody, and the topic of the case comes up? Just stop talking about it?”

  “Ideally, yes,” Ryan said. “If the person has any information, that is. You could tell him or her to come to me directly. I know what I need, and I know how to ask questions in a way that will stand up in court.”

  Heather dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to compromise anything.”

  Ryan’s finger beneath her chin raised her eyes back to his. “The most important reason I don’t want you involved is because I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said. “It’s not court; it’s you. I don’t want the murderer to come after you, too.”

  ***

  So how was your date last night? Heather texted Amy. Did you get your hair done?

  But instead of pinging with an incoming text, the phone began to play “Here Comes the Sun.” Heather picked it up. “Hello?”

  “No, I did not get my hair done before the date, and it’s a good thing,” Amy said. “Otherwise, Chris would have run away and never looked back.”

  “What do you mean?” Heather asked. She chose a spot in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, pulled in, and put the car in park so she could sit and finish the conversation.

  “I mean that I got my hair done this morning,” Amy said. “Your girl wasn’t available, so I picked another salon. Nice looking little place in a building full of boutique-y type shops.” She paused, and then said dramatically, “Now, I’m ready to be Medusa for Halloween. No, wait. I don’t have that much hair left. Maybe Demi Moore. In her bald phase.”

  “It can’t be that bad, can it?” Heather asked hopefully.

  “Come see it,” Amy said. “I’m at home. I’ll be staying here until my hair grows out enough that I can get it cut right and show my face in public again.”

  The line went dead, and Heather looked at the screen. Amy had hung up.

  There was only one thing a best friend co
uld do. Wal-Mart would have to wait. Heather backed out of the space and drove toward the exit.

  ***

  “Come in!” Amy shouted.

  Heather turned the knob, opened the door, and let herself into Amy’s house. But she didn’t see any sign of her friend. “Amy, where are you?” she called out.

  “I’m hiding,” Amy said. “Now promise me you won’t laugh or make jokes.”

  “Okay,” Heather said, stopping in the middle of Amy’s living room. “I won’t laugh or make jokes, no matter how bad it is, scout’s honor.”