Glazed Murder

by Jessica Beck

  “It’s part of the human-interest angle,” I said.

  Grace nodded. “Our editor won’t even look at the story if we don’t have human interest.”

  Deb seemed to mull that over, then said, “Fine. If you must know, my boyfriend wasn’t a big fan of my hobby. He didn’t get it.”

  “Is that why he’s not your boyfriend anymore?” I asked.

  “He died,” she said curtly. “I really don’t want to discuss it any further, if you don’t mind.”

  Grace closed the notebook she’d been scribbling in. “I’m sorry you feel that way. We’re sorry to have bothered you.” She turned to me and said, “Call Max and tell him we don’t need him for the photo shoot after all.”

  “Wait, you can’t leave,” Deb said as she grabbed my arm. She had a grip like a longshoreman.

  “Sorry. It’s out of our hands,” I said as I tried to pry her loose.

  “I’ll talk about him,” she said. “He was murdered, and the police don’t know who did it. They haven’t even talked to me, and I could help them.”

  “What would you tell them if you could?” I asked.

  “They should focus on his ex-wife. She wanted his life insurance money, only Patrick fooled her.”

  “And left it to you instead?” I asked gently.

  “That’s what he promised me. What’s wrong with that? We were in love.”

  Grace said, “Some folks might think that gave you a motive for murder. Was it a lot of money?”

  “Not really. I wanted him alive and with me. What good would the money be to me without Patrick? I haven’t even contacted the insurance company yet.”

  “So you and his ex-wife both had motives,” I said. “She thought she was going to benefit from his death, but it sounds as if you’re the one who really did.”

  Deb wasn’t about to take that. She snapped, “You know what? There are more people than me who had a reason to kill him. You should talk to his secretary at the bank. Her name’s Vicki Houser, and she had every reason in the world to want to see him dead herself.”

  I thought of that sweet and caring woman I’d spoken to the day before, and I couldn’t imagine her as a killer. “Why do you say that?”

  “She’s been in love with him for years, and Patrick finally had enough of her pining and sickening adoration. He told her he wasn’t the least bit interested in her romantically a month ago. She wouldn’t accept his rejection, though, and when she found out he was seeing me all along, she said she’d see him dead before she’d let him throw his life away on me. There’s the one you should talk to.”

  Could she be telling the truth, or was Deb Jenkins just trying to muddy the waters? I’d been focusing on the business end of motives, but this afternoon’s interviews had revealed an entirely separate line of investigation. I wondered if Chief Martin had even thought about the possibility that Patrick Blaine had been killed for love, instead of money. Then again, if Deb Jenkins had done it, it might be because of a little bit of both.

  Grace’s cell phone rang, and she excused herself.

  Deb looked at me, then said, “Can we please talk about my collection now? It’s fit for the finest museum.”

  “You’ve certainly been thorough in your dedication,” I said.

  Grace hung up, then said, “We’ve got to go.”

  “What about the photographer?” Deb asked.

  “I’m sorry, they bumped the story. Thanks for your time, though.”

  Deb snapped, “So that’s it? You’re just going to walk away?” Her voice had gotten louder with each word she spoke.

  “Easy,” I said. “There’s no reason to lose your temper.”

  She nearly shouted, “I don’t have a temper!”

  Grace’s eyes grew large while I envisioned both of us pinned and labeled on a board under glass, and added to her collection.

  I said, “We’ll do our best to convince our editor that this is a worthy story. We’ll be in touch.”

  That seemed to mollify her somewhat. “Do you have a card?”

  “Sorry, I’m all out,” I said. “Maybe there’s one in the car.”

  We got into Grace’s car and drove off as fast as we could.

  Once we were out of sight, I turned to Grace and asked, “What was so urgent about that telephone call?”

  “My dentist’s office called to remind me of my next appointment. I had to get out of there. She was creepy, wasn’t she?”

  I fought back a chill. “What did he ever see in her? She isn’t pretty, by any stretch of the imagination, and she has the personality of a psycho. I just don’t see the appeal.”

  “Are you asking me to explain a man’s behavior? You’re talking to the wrong gal. I haven’t been able to figure them out yet.”

  I noticed that we were driving away from April Springs, instead of toward it. “Where are we headed now?”

  “I thought we’d have a chat with Vicki Houser.”

  “The reporter angle isn’t going to work,” I said. “She already knows I’m a donut maker.”

  “Then we’ll just have to ask her point-blank if she had anything to do with her boss’s death.”

  “This could get ugly,” I said.

  “Uglier than Moth Girl? I don’t see how.”

  We didn’t even get to find out. At the bank, we learned that Vicki Houser had turned in her notice, and was taking accumulated vacation time, as of that morning.

  It appeared that one of our suspects had gotten away.

  At least for now.

  As we were driving back to the donut shop, I had an idea. “Let’s find out where Vicki Houser lives.”

  “You heard her replacement at the bank. She’s gone.”

  “Do we know that, really? Just because she quit her job and took her vacation time doesn’t mean she’s left town. It takes time to pack up everything you own. I’m willing to bet she hasn’t left town yet.”

  “I knew there was a reason I kept you around. That’s not a bad idea.”

  As Grace called Information yet again, I wondered what I’d say to get Vicki to talk. I could appeal to her sense of loyalty to her former boss, or Grace and I could let her know right away that we knew she had more of an interest in him than just as her boss. It was an ugly business, and I hated airing people’s dirty laundry if I didn’t need to, but I didn’t have much choice. How long would it take until the killer came after me? I wondered if I might not be speeding up the process by ignoring the warning, but I couldn’t see any other way around it.

  The hard questions had to be asked.

  There was a moving van parked in front of the apartment where Vicki Houser lived.

  Grace smiled. “You were right. She’s not gone yet.”

  We knocked on the door three times, tried the handle, even walked around to the back.

  No Vicki Houser anywhere in sight.

  “We could leave her a note to call us,” I said.

  “What possible reason could we give her to do that?”

  I thought about it a minute, then said, “Why don’t we tell her we found some money that we think might belong to her?”

  Grace asked, “Why would she ever believe that?”

  “How many people do you know who would be willing to turn their back on found money, whether it belonged to them originally or not?”

  “I guess it’s worth a shot,” Grace said. “We certainly can’t stay camped out on her front lawn waiting for her to come back home.”

  “I’ve got a feeling that would get Chief Martin’s attention pretty fast,” I agreed. “And I don’t want to confirm what he already suspects. Let me borrow that notebook of yours so I can leave her a note.”

  “Put my number on it, not yours,” Grace said.

  “No way. I’m not dragging you that far into this.”

  “Think about it, Suzanne. You’ll be asleep in a few hours. It’s hard to tell when Vicki’s going to get back here to finish packing.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not going
to do it. Even if she calls at midnight, I’ll take it.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  I touched her shoulder lightly. “Thanks, I appreciate that, I really do, but I’m still not letting you put your neck on the line like that.”

  “Fine, then we’ll do it your way.”

  I wrote the note, with a promise of cash, and tucked it into the door frame where she’d be sure to see it.

  As we drove back to Donut Hearts, I wondered if the lure of money would be strong enough to reel her in, or if Vicki’s desire to get out of town would supersede everything else.

  I collected my Jeep back at the shop, thought about going in and having one last look around the place, but I was dead tired, hungry, and ready for some sleep. It was time to go home.

  To my delight, dinner was on the table, and it was my favorite. My mother was known over seven counties for her pot roast, and there were grown men who cried at the thought of getting a single taste of it.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked Momma as I walked into the kitchen.

  “What are you talking about? I cook dinner almost every evening.”

  “Not pot roast,” I said. “I feel special.”

  “You should,” she said. “Are you ready to eat?”

  I took my seat. “You’d better believe it.”

  A large helping of roast, carrots, potatoes, and onions made it quickly to my plate. The smells of the cooked meat and vegetables, along with a handful of Momma’s secret spices topped off with two Bay leaves, made my mouth water.

  There were definite advantages to living back at home with her, and the wonderful meals she cooked was near the top of the list.

  Momma said a quick grace, and then we ate.

  I took a piece of her sourdough and slathered it with butter before taking a big bite of the warm bread.

  As we ate, I tried to steer the conversation away from what I’d been up to.

  I cleaned my plate, thought about getting seconds, then realized that I’d better stop.

  “I don’t suppose there’s dessert,” I said.

  “Can you honestly eat anything after all that?”

  I grinned. “Try me.”

  She bit her lip, then finally admitted, “There’s peach cobbler, but we can have it tomorrow, if you’d like. It saves beautifully.”

  “If there’s any left by then, that’s fine with me. Do we have any vanilla ice cream to go with it?”

  “It’s in the freezer.”

  She gave me a penurious slice of cobbler along with a dollop of ice cream, but I knew I could raid the fridge in the morning before work, so I didn’t protest.

  It was probably a good thing. By the time I had the last bite, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold a thimbleful more of food.

  The phone rang just as I was pushing my plate away. “Could you get that, Momma?”

  She picked up the phone, and after a few seconds, gave it to me.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Is this Suzanne Hart? Your name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  Was I about to get another threat? “It is.”

  “This is Vicki Houser. I’m not exactly sure what money your note was talking about, but I thought I’d give you a call.”

  “Hi, Vicki. We met at the bank yesterday. I’m the woman who brought you donuts.”

  She paused, then said, “I’m sorry, but how does that involve my money?”

  That was a good question. Unfortunately, I wasn’t all that sure I had a good answer. I said, “I was talking to Rita Blaine, and your name came up.”

  Vicki’s voice went deadly cold. “What did she have to say?”

  “She was going through her ex-husband’s things, and she found some money in an envelope with your name on it. She thought you should have it, so I volunteered to deliver it to you, since we’d already met.”

  The woman’s tone shifted yet again, this time with a new level of warmth in it. “How thoughtful of her. Do you happen to know how much it is?”

  “The envelope’s sealed, but you can see a twenty through a tear.” I was going to have to fork over some of my own money, something I hadn’t planned on, but I really didn’t have much choice.

  “Is there a letter with it that you can see?”

  I suddenly realized how I could have gotten Vicki Houser’s attention without spending my money to do it. A promised letter from her ex-boss, fantasy love, and who knew whatever else, would have been more enticing to her than cash.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Can you meet with me now?” I’d call Grace and pick her up on the way. There really was safety in numbers.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m tied up until midnight. Then I’m leaving town. I’ll swing by the donut shop on my way out of town. What time do you get there?”

  “Not until two,” I said.

  “Meet me there at one-thirty, and you can give it to me then. Thanks for calling.”

  “Good-bye,” I said. I wasn’t sure Grace would be able to meet me so late, or early, depending on the point of view. She wasn’t picking up her cell phone, so I left her a voice message. The meeting wasn’t ideal, but I didn’t have much choice. I needed to talk to the woman before she left town.

  I just wasn’t sure I wanted to do it alone. Maybe Emma would come in early.

  I dialed her number, and got her answering machine. After the command to leave a message, I said, “Emma, this is Suzanne. Could you come in a little early tomorrow?”

  Momma came back in from the kitchen. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing,” I said, trying to avoid a direct conversation about what I’d been up to.

  “It didn’t sound like nothing to me.”

  I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten to go by the bank before it closed, and the only ATM I could use was out of order. Some idiot had tried to steal it a few nights before, going so far as pulling it out of the bank wall, but there he’d been thwarted in his grand larceny attempt. What the fool hadn’t counted on was that the machine was wired into the bank’s alarm system, and the sirens had driven him away.

  In the meantime, law-abiding citizens were being inconvenienced until they could get a new machine. I looked in my wallet and found a twenty, four ones, and a coupon for Hobby Hood. It made for an anemic envelope.

  “Momma, do you have any singles?”

  “Has it gotten that bad at the shop?” she asked.

  “No, this isn’t for me. It’s for a friend.”

  Her hand stopped in midair as it had been going toward her purse. “Suzanne, which of your friends is in need of money?”

  “It’s too long a story to tell you. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

  She raised an eyebrow as she retrieved six one-dollar bills and handed them to me. “I’m sorry it’s not more.”

  “This is perfect,” I said as I stuffed them into the envelope. It didn’t look like a fortune, which it surely wasn’t, but it might be enough to keep Vicki Houser occupied while I talked to her about what had happened between her and her boss, and why she was leaving town so abruptly.

  I scrawled Vicki’s name on the front of the envelope, then jammed it into my purse.

  It was just in time, too. I heard the front doorbell ring, and when I looked up, I found State Police Inspector Jake Bishop watching me from my front porch. How long had he been standing there, and how much had he heard?

  I had a feeling I was about to find out.

  BAKED CINNAMON APPLE DONUTS

  Baked donuts are more of a breadlike consistency, and if you’re hesitant to begin your donut journey with frying, this is a good place to start. In fact, my daughter prefers these over most of the fried varieties. Be warned, though; baking means these donuts take quite a bit longer from when you start to when you can start enjoying them.

  INGREDIENTS

  2 packets dry yeast

  ½ cup warm water

  ½ cup granulated sugar

  1½ cups applesauce

  3 tab
lespoons butter or margarine, melted

  2 teaspoons cinnamon

  1 teaspoon nutmeg

  ½ teaspoon salt

  2 eggs, lightly beaten

  5½ to 6½ cups all-purpose flour

  Topping

  ½ cup butter, melted

  ½ cup sugar

  1 tablespoon cinnamon

  DIRECTIONS

  Dissolve the yeast in the warm water in a large bowl, allowing it to sit 5 to 10 minutes.

  Then add the sugar, applesauce, melted butter, cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, beaten eggs, and 3 cups of the flour. Beat it at low speed with an electric mixer or by hand until the mixture is moistened throughout, then beat at medium speed for another minute.

  Stir in 2½ cups of flour, ½ cup at a time, adding it until you’ve formed a soft dough. The consistency of the dough is more important than the exact amount of flour you use. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface, and knead it about 5 minutes, until it’s smooth and elastic.

  Place the dough in a bowl coated with cooking spray, then lightly spray the top. Cover it with a clean cloth and let it rise in a warm place, free from drafts, for about 1 hour. It will have almost doubled in size by then. Punch the dough down, and then turn it out onto a lightly floured surface.

  Roll the dough to ½-inch thickness, and then cut it with your donut cutter.

  Place the donuts and holes on greased baking sheets, then brush the tops of donuts with some of the melted butter. Let the donuts rise, uncovered, in a warm, draft-free place for 30 minutes.

  Bake the donuts at 425 degrees for 11 minutes or until they are golden. Immediately brush melted butter over baked donuts as soon as you take them out, and then dip the donuts into the sugar-cinnamon mix.

  Makes 12 to 16 donuts.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I need a minute of your time,” Jake said as I walked to the door.

  “I thought we already covered everything we needed to discuss before, Inspector.” I wasn’t ready to admit to my own mother what I’d been up to, and I certainly wasn’t going to admit it to somebody who could put me in jail for my meddling. Actually, I wasn’t sure he could do that, but I wasn’t ready to take the chance.