Glazed Murder

by Jessica Beck

  “It must have been dreadful for you, dear,” she said.

  “It was just another day,” I said, fighting to suppress my sigh.

  Her eyebrows arched. There wasn’t a soul left on earth who remembered their original shape. For some odd reason, Gabby had tweezed her brows into oblivion, carefully redrawing them every morning with a heavy eyebrow pencil that fooled no one.

  She asked archly, “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that you find bodies outside your shop every morning?”

  “Oh, that. It happened so quickly, I’d nearly forgotten about it.” I only wished that were true. Unfortunately, I wondered if the image would ever fade, though George’s words of encouragement gave me hope that someday it would.

  “Come to my shop and tell me all about it,” she said.

  I considered making my excuses, but if I did that, I’d end up in Gabby’s daily gossip report as a likely suspect, I just knew it.

  “I’ve only got a minute,” I said as I let myself be led into her shop after bolting my front door closed. With all of those old clothes in her inventory, I always expected the place to be a bit musty, but I had to give Gabby credit. She ran a tight shop, though the lavender scent ever-present in the air was a little strong for my taste.

  We walked through aisles of clothing to the back register where she had a teapot staying warm on a fancy little hot plate. “Care for some Earl Grey?”

  “Just a smidge,” I said, putting my bank deposit on my seat.

  Gabby poured a full cup, then she handed it to me. It appeared that I was going to be there for some time. I’d just recounted what had happened for the third time when my cell phone laughed at me. I’d changed the ring tone on a whim, and instead of a proper summons, it now laughed maniacally whenever I had a call. I was questioning that choice now—and vowing to change it at the next possible opportunity—when I answered it before it could laugh again.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s George. Where are you? I’m at your shop and you’re not here.”

  “I’m next door at Gabby’s. What is it? Is something wrong?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Don’t say anything in front of that gossipmonger, but make your excuses and meet me in front of your place. It’s important.”

  “I understand. I’ll be right there.”

  I hung up and told Gabby, “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Was it the police?” she asked as she gestured to my phone.

  “No, it’s about the donut shop.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, since George was retired and not an official member of law enforcement anymore. And honestly, anything that affected me included my shop. At least it might let me get away from Gabby unscathed.

  “Go, I understand. I’m a businesswoman, too, and we need to stick together.”

  “Thanks for the tea,” I said as I started for the door.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Gabby called out to me.

  What did I have to do, rinse out my cup before I was allowed to leave? “I don’t think so.”

  She held up my deposit bag. “It feels rather full. Should I take care of it for you myself?”

  “No, thanks,” I said sheepishly as I retrieved the day’s receipts. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Good-bye,” she said as she reached for her telephone. There was little doubt in my mind I was going to be the subject of her morning bulletin. I only hoped I came out as a sympathetic character and not the villain of the piece.

  Either way, I was free from her, at least for now. When I saw the scowl on George’s face, though, I almost found myself wishing I were back having tea with Gabby.

  The look on his face drained any good cheer I might have felt from my narrow escape. “What is it? Did something happen? Hey, I thought you had to work.”

  “The case was dismissed,” he said as he looked around the sidewalk. “We can’t talk here, I don’t want anyone overhearing our conversation. Can we go inside?”

  I dug through my purse and found my keys. There was no mistaking George’s intent gaze of concern.

  Once we were in the shop, I flipped the lock shut, then said, “Let’s go back to my office. Otherwise people might think I’m still open for business and start banging on the door for donuts.”

  We walked in back, going past the fryer, the glazing rack, and the dough board, past the proofing station, the dry storage, and the refrigeration units, until we got to my cubby of an office tucked in one corner of the flour-storage area where fifty-pound bags waited their turn for the large flour mixer.

  I followed him in, then said, “There’s not much room, but at least it’s out of sight from prying eyes. Now don’t keep me in suspense. What’s so important?”

  George said, “It turns out Patrick Blaine is more than just a regular, everyday banker. There’s a buzz around the squad room that he’s into some of the darker areas of finance, and his murder was the result of having a dissatisfied customer.”

  “Patrick? I can’t believe it. He always seemed so sweet to me.”

  “I trust my sources,” he said.

  “Even if it’s true,” I said, “what does that have to do with me?”

  George frowned. “Maybe nothing, but I’m wondering how safe you are here right now. If the killer thinks you might be a witness to the body disposal, what’s going to keep him from tying up a loose end and getting rid of you?”

  I protested a little too loudly for the small space, “But I didn’t see anything.” Being referred to as an item on a killer’s to-do list wasn’t something I enjoyed hearing.

  “You know that, and I know that, but he might not be willing to take the chance.”

  I tried to pace, but there was just no room for it. “What am I supposed to do, lock myself up in my house and hope he goes away? I’ve got a business to run, and if I close Donut Hearts for even a week, I might as well shut down for good. There’s a fine line between profit and loss for me here, and I can’t afford to let it get any narrower.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders. “You have to realize that you can’t afford to take any chances, either.”

  Fighting to keep my voice calm, I said, “George, I appreciate your concern, but I can’t change my life and go hide in a hole, even if I wanted to.”

  He shrugged. “Then it’s on your head, and not mine. I just thought you had a right to know what you might be facing.”

  George started for the door when I grabbed his arm. “Hey, I do appreciate you looking out for me. Don’t stop, okay?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any promises.” George knocked on the back door. “Would you mind opening this?”

  I did as he asked, and he paused at the door that led into the alley.

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” he said.

  “I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on since I’m already here,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Then I’m staying, too,” he said as he moved back inside.

  Honestly, I knew he just wanted what was best for me, but I already had one overprotective person in my life in the guise of a mother. “Go. I’m fine. I mean it.”

  There must have been something in my voice that registered with him, because George studied me a second, then nodded. “I won’t be far.”

  “I know, and it really does make me feel better.”

  After I bolted the back door behind him, I didn’t feel much like doing paperwork after all. There was a constant stream of it in and out of my small business, and I never seemed to catch up on the growing pile, let alone chip away much of its depth.

  I started for the front, then paused at the door that separated my kitchen from the public space and peeked outside.

  At first, everything looked fine in the world outside my shop, but then I saw a man across the street staring hard at me, using an open newspaper as a shield to deflect my glance after a second. Our eyes met for an instant before he could hide, tho
ugh, and there was nothing casual about his gaze when he looked at me. He was tall and thin, with a shock of sandy blond hair, and under other circumstances, I would have thought him quite attractive.

  But there was nothing appealing about him at the moment.

  Ducking back into the kitchen, I reached for the phone and dialed the police. The chief and I might have issues, but I needed someone there, and like an idiot, I’d just sent George away. I was promised an officer immediately, and then I hung up. There was nothing I could do now except wait. I only hoped the police arrived before the man across the street grew bolder and decided to come after me.

  No such luck. He folded his newspaper and crossed Springs Drive toward my shop with a firm step and a quick pace. Panicking, I grabbed the first thing I could lay my hands on. I was just glad it was a long, sharp knife instead of something harmless like a roll of paper towels. As he neared the door, I double-checked to see that it was locked, then I made sure he saw the knife in my hand.

  “Go away,” I shouted, as I looked up and down the street. Where were the police when I needed them?

  “You need to let me in right now,” he said as he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “If I open this door, I’m going to fillet you. I called the police. They’ll be here any second.”

  I expected to see a gun in his hand when he pulled it out of his jacket, and I knew that neither the thin glass of the shop windows nor the steel of my blade would be able to stop him if he wanted to shoot me through the door.

  Instead, he pulled out a wallet, which he opened to show me a badge. “My name’s Jake Bishop. I’m with the state police inspector’s office, and I’d like to talk to you.” He glanced at the knife, then he added with a wry smile, “If you promise not to skewer me when I come in.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said as I started to undo the lock, feeling foolish holding a knife on him in broad daylight on the other side of a locked door. Just then, a squad car pulled up. Officer Moore, the young man who’d taken my statement that morning, jumped out of his patrol car with his gun pointing toward both of us.

  After a tense moment or two while the state policeman explained his presence there, Moore reholstered his weapon and drove off without glancing back in my direction.

  “Come in,” I said as I opened the door. “I don’t have any coffee left, but I’ve got a donut or two you could have.” I gestured to one of the boxes of leftovers, but he shook his head.

  “I’m fine. I’m here to talk to you about what happened this morning.”

  “Like I’ve told everyone else, I didn’t see anything. It all happened so quickly.”

  “Do you happen to have a security camera on the premises?” he asked as he looked around the shop.

  “Honestly, I can barely afford napkins. This isn’t exactly a gold mine I’m running here. I never considered the possibility that someone might try to rob me, so beefed-up security has never been an issue.”

  He shook his head. “You’re just asking for trouble if you don’t take the most basic precautions.”

  “I do what I can, and I’m being especially careful now, but I just don’t have the money for anything else.”

  “I understand that.” He slid a card across the counter to me. “If you think of anything later, call me. If you receive any disturbing messages or threats, call me. If anything out of the ordinary happens—”

  I interrupted him and smiled. “Let me guess. I should call you, right?”

  He laughed as he left the shop.

  I almost threw his card away in the trash can, but something made me tuck it into my purse instead.

  I hoped I never needed it, but it would be good to have it with me, just in case.

  One thing was clear. This mess wasn’t going to just go away, no matter how much I hoped it would. I was going to have to do something myself about my friend’s murder, or keep looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, and that was a sacrifice I wasn’t willing to make. I needed to dig into Patrick Blaine’s life a little and see how I could take myself out of the equation before someone decided to do it for me.

  First, though, I needed something to eat. I locked up, put all of the leftover donuts in the back of my Jeep, then walked down the tracks across the street to the Boxcar. I needed a hamburger, maybe a milk-shake, and a chat with Trish Granger, a friend of mine who owned the diner. As I climbed up the steps into the converted train car, I marveled at how Trish had managed to put a restaurant in it. Booths replaced one section of seats on the left side, and a counter ran the entire length of the restaurant on the right. It wasn’t elegant dining by any means, and that suited me just fine. I’ve always been more of a blue-jeans kind of gal than a dressed-to-kill lady.

  Trish Granger and I had gone to school together, and she’d changed very little since we’d graduated fifteen years before. Still fit and trim—with long blond hair she kept in a neat ponytail—Trish always had a smile to serve with her food.

  She said, “Grab a menu and I’ll be right there.”

  “No need for that. I’ll have a cheeseburger and a Diet Coke.” On the walk over, I’d decided against the milkshake, since I’d been sampling so many donuts lately. I took a booth near the back, one of eight that ran down one side of the train car opposite the long counter that offered seating of its own. The kitchen had been added onto the other side of the train car, and the only connection between the two was the pass-through window and a pocket door that was always open. I felt as if I were moving when I ate there, going on some faraway, exotic adventure in the train car, straight out of a black-and-white movie.

  After a few minutes, Trish slid my order onto the table and said, “What a mess this morning. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Wanna talk about it?” she asked.

  “Not really.”

  Trish smiled. “Good enough. I’m here if you need to chat, you know that, don’t you?”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  With that, she went back to the front register. That was one of the things I liked best about her. She always knew just the right questions to ask, and when to press, or fade into the background.

  As I ate my burger, I thought about how I was going to approach the bank where Patrick worked, and by the time I was finished with my meal, I had a plan of sorts ready. It would have been bad enough to see a stranger’s body dumped from a car in the middle of the night, but I’d known Patrick Blaine, and liked him. That made it personal.

  Now it would just take the nerves of a cat burglar to implement my plan to try to find out what had happened to him, and more important, why.

  SUZANNE’S PUMPKIN DONUTS

  We love these donuts around Thanksgiving, and make them quite often when there’s frost or snow on the ground. The flavors are subtle, but the pumpkin taste is there, and makes a nice change of pace from the usual donut.

  INGREDIENTS

  2 eggs, beaten

  1 cup sugar

  2 tablespoons canola oil

  1 can pumpkin puree (16 oz.)

  ⅔ cup buttermilk

  4–5 cups bread flour

  1 teaspoon salt

  4 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  1 teaspoon nutmeg

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon ground ginger

  DIRECTIONS

  Beat the eggs well, then add the sugar, mixing until it’s all incorporated. Add the oil, pumpkin, and buttermilk, then mix that all in. In a separate bowl, combine all of the dry ingredients, holding back 1 cup of the flour, using 4 cups of flour, the baking powder, baking soda, salt, nutmeg, cinnamon, and ground ginger. Sift the dry ingredients together and add them slowly to the egg mix. Once you’ve got them well mixed, chill the dough for about an hour. Once the dough is thoroughly chilled, roll the dough out on a floured surface until it’s about ¼ inch thick, then cut out donuts and holes with your donut cutter. While the donuts are resting, heat t
he oil in your fryer to 375 degrees. Add the donuts to the oil a few at a time, turning them once after a couple of minutes. Take them out, drain them on a rack, then they’re ready to eat. These are good with powdered sugar on top, or just plain.

  Makes approximately 1 dozen donuts.

  CHAPTER 3

  I shifted two boxes of glazed donuts in my arms as I walked into the bank where Patrick Blaine had worked until yesterday. Funny, but he’d never talked about his work when he came to the donut shop, and if I hadn’t seen him wearing a conservative suit every time he came in, I would have had a hard time believing it.

  There were a pair of police officers digging into the files in one of the executive offices, and I realized I was already too late to get any information on my own. The chief’s men had beaten me to the punch.

  Or had they?

  I saw a plump woman sitting at a nearby desk dabbing at her cheeks with a delicately embroidered handkerchief.

  As I approached her, I asked, “Are you all right?”

  It took her a second to focus on me, and when she did, I could see that her eyes were bloodshot, most likely representing her state of mourning. As she dabbed at her cheeks, she said, “I’ll be fine. It was just so sudden, you know?”

  “Did you work for Mr. Blaine long?”

  “Seven years,” she admitted as she dabbed at her cheeks again. She seemed to actually notice me for the first time as she stared quizzically at me. “Why are you carrying two boxes of donuts?”