Glazed Murder

by Jessica Beck

The lull didn’t last for long, and a steady trickle of professional folks, mothers with kids in school, and retirees started trickling in soon after I got back.

  When the front door opened a little after ten, I was surprised to see Gail and Tina come in, two regulars who were widows and now roommates. Their children had left long ago, and the two women had grown tired of living alone, though I wasn’t sure their current arrangement was much better.

  “Ladies, I thought you were on a cruise.”

  Gail, a rail-thin woman with straight black hair, said, “We were, but the captain threw us off the boat.”

  Tina, short and round and all kinds of soft, said, “It was a ship, and we didn’t get thrown off. You’d rather lie than tell the truth, wouldn’t you?”

  “Don’t listen to her, Suzanne. What I said was all true,” Gail said as she ordered a cup of coffee and an apple fritter.

  “The ship ran aground,” Tina said. “Everyone had to leave, not just us. You keep making it sound like we were singled out for bad behavior or something.”

  “Oh, my, that sounds dreadful,” I said as I got Tina three donuts and a cup of whole milk.

  Gail said, “Actually, it was quite fun. I’ve never been on a life raft before. It felt like we were in a Hitchcock movie.”

  “It was nothing like that,” Tina said. “We were twenty feet from shore, and everything was rather mundane.”

  “Mundane?” Gail asked. “How about the man who had a heart attack?”

  “It wasn’t a heart attack, it was a panic attack, and as soon as he breathed into a paper bag, he was fine. I do wish you wouldn’t embellish the truth so much.”

  Gail frowned. “It’s not lying. I’m just telling the story from my own perspective.”

  “From wherever that is,” Tina said.

  After they were settled onto one of the couches, I was restocking some of the trays in the display when Grace walked in.

  “I just got your message,” she said, looking more frazzled than I’d ever seen her. “My voice mail’s messed up. Why didn’t you keep calling me until I answered?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, “and would you mind lowering your voice?” We were attracting quite a bit of attention, and not the good kind.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’d kill for a cup of coffee. I’m sorry about that, as well. Not the best choice of words, was it?”

  I put a full mug in front of her, and after she greedily drank some down, she said, “Tell me what happened.”

  “Vicki came by on her way out of town this morning, but she didn’t think Rita or Deb had anything to do with the murder. She was pretty suspicious of the two businesses Blaine was dealing with, though.”

  “Good. So after work today, we go see them.”

  “Are you sure you want to keep digging into this with me?”

  Grace looked surprised by my question. “I told you that as long as you’re doing this, I’m right beside you. You’re not having a change of heart, are you?”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “I just seem to be attracting a lot of attention from the police lately.”

  “Who said something, the chief? Come on, he’s had you in his sights for years.”

  “Actually, Jake Bishop came by the house last night.”

  That got her attention. “Was it for business, or pleasure?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Grace shook her head. “Come on, don’t be coy with me. You like him, don’t you? I can hear that hitch in your throat when you talk about him.”

  I threw my dishtowel down on the counter. “He’s done nothing but aggravate me since he came onto the scene.”

  Grace waved a hand in the air. “You can protest all you want, but I know I’m not imagining it.”

  “That’s nonsense,” I said, but was it? Did Grace see something in me I wasn’t ready to acknowledge to myself, or admit to the world? He was a handsome man, there was no denying that.

  She asked, “So, how did you leave things with him? I’m not foolish enough to think you kissed him good night, but was there at least a lingering goodbye at the door?”

  “No, Max picked the worst time in the world to show up on my doorstep, and Jake rushed off as soon as my ex showed up.”

  “What did he want?” Grace asked. She wasn’t a big fan of my ex-husband, and clearly wasn’t afraid who knew it.

  “Believe it or not, I think he wants to get back together with me.”

  Grace frowned. “You aren’t going to, are you? Please tell me you didn’t promise him anything.”

  “If you want to know the truth, I threw him out,” I said.

  “Good for you.”

  “Grace, he made a mistake, and he’s asked me for my forgiveness.”

  She shook her head.

  I asked, “What?”

  “Just because he asks for your forgiveness doesn’t mean you have to give it.”

  I sighed. “I know you’re right, but I can’t keep holding this grudge forever. It’s not healthy.”

  “Forgive him if you want to, but I was the one who was there helping you pick up the pieces of your life, remember? Don’t try to tell me he’s suddenly repentant about the affair, because I don’t believe it.” Grace threw a ten onto the counter, and I noticed that we’d amassed quite an audience.

  I didn’t care. “Hey,” I called out, “are we okay?”

  She waved. “We’re fine. I just need some air.”

  “Call me later,” I said.

  She nodded absently, and then walked away without a single look back.

  SOUTHERN PEACH COBBLER

  My family clamors for peach cobbler all year long, and when peaches are in season, I like them the best. But canned peaches make a great cobbler, too, so over the years, I’ve developed this recipe using what I can find on the grocer’s shelf. This one’s a real hit at home, and it has the added benefit of being really easy to make!

  INGREDIENTS

  1 stick butter (½ cup)

  1½ cups granulated sugar

  1 cup flour

  1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon cinnamon

  1½ teaspoons baking powder

  ½ cup milk (2% or whole)

  1 can (29 oz.) sliced peaches in heavy syrup,

  drained, keeping ¾ cup of the syrup

  DIRECTIONS

  Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Melt the butter, then pour it into the bottom of a 9 by 13 casserole dish. Set aside ½ cup sugar and all of the cinnamon, then separate the peaches from the syrup, keeping the syrup in another container for use later.

  Mix the remaining 1 cup sugar and the other dry ingredients together in a bowl, then stir in the milk and the heavy syrup from the peaches. Next, put the peaches in bottom of the dish on top of the melted butter. Pour the batter over the top of the peaches.

  Mix the cinnamon and the remaining ½ cup of sugar and sprinkle that over the top of the mixture.

  Bake this at 350 degrees for about 1 hour, or until the top crust is golden brown and has pulled away slightly from the sides of the dish.

  Serves 6–8

  CHAPTER 7

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be back,” Tina said from her vantage point as Grace disappeared.

  “You don’t know that,” Gail said. “She may never set foot in here again.”

  “Are you helping or hurting, Gail, helping or hurting?”

  “I do wish you’d stop saying that, Tina,” her friend said. “It really aggravates me, and it annoys everyone else, too.”

  “All I’m saying is that you should ask yourself that question before you say something that might hurt someone else’s feelings.”

  Gail stood abruptly. “I don’t have to take this, you know.”

  She stormed out of the donut shop herself, but Tina never moved a muscle to try to stop her.

  I walked over and topped off her coffee. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pull you two into my argument.”

  Tina offered me a slight smile. “Are you kidding? I welcome the p
eace and quiet.”

  “But what about Gail?”

  Tina laughed. “It will do her some good, storming around town until her temper settles down. This has been brewing since we had to get off the ship, and I for one am relieved it finally blew. Once she’s over her fit of pique, things will be fine again.” She nodded to me, then added, “Your friend will feel the same way, I’m sure.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Tina said, “Well, Gail’s probably had time to cool off by now. I’d better go track her down.” She touched my shoulder lightly as she added, “Keep your chin high, and don’t let the monkeys of the world get you down.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Must have coffee,” Terri Milner said an hour later as she presented herself at the counter. She was, at that moment, the epitome of a frazzled mom.

  As I poured her a cup, I said, “What happened, did you have a rough night?”

  She waited for the mug, then she took it from my hands the second I offered it to her. After taking a bigger gulp than I ever would have recommended, she smiled blissfully. “That almost made what I just went through worth it.”

  “I’m still waiting on the update,” I said.

  “The girls have discovered boys,” she said. “Eight is a little young for that, don’t you think?”

  “How have they discovered them, exactly?”

  Terri took another deep drink, then held the mug out for a refill. As I topped her off, she said, “There’s a boy in second grade named Ethan Marks, and he’s all my girls can talk about it. I’m so tired of Ethan this and Ethan that, I could scream.”

  “It sounds rough,” I said, as I looked out the window. “Where’s Sandy?”

  “She’s on her way. Her son forgot his homework—yet again—and she had to take it by the school first.” Terri pointed out the window. “Here she comes now.”

  As the second mother came in, I had another mug of coffee poured and waiting for her.

  The second she saw it, she smiled and said, “Thanks for thinking of me, but I’d rather have apple juice.”

  I started to dump it down the sink when Terri made a grab for it. “Don’t just waste it. I’ll take it.”

  I laughed as I handed it to her. After the women placed their donut orders, I heard Terri say, “Has your son ever talked about Ethan Marks?”

  “Sneezin’ Ethan? Sure, why?”

  “Why do they call him that?” Terri asked.

  “The poor boy’s allergic to just about everything,” Sandy said.

  “Well, apparently he’s not allergic to my girls. They both appear to have raging crushes on him. Tell me something, and be honest with me. Doesn’t the second grade seem too young to start noticing boys?”

  Sandy patted her friend’s hand. “I had my first true love in first grade, so by my clock, they’re a little late.”

  Terri looked a little mollified. “What about you, Suzanne?”

  I gave them their donuts, then I said, “I can beat that. Kyle Peters shared his mat with me in kindergarten after Jenny Grace stole mine, and he had my heart forever, at least until the next day, when Steve Brewer gave me his juice box. What can I say, my head’s easily turned.”

  Terri stared at us both intently. “So, you two don’t think it’s anything to be worried about?”

  “Not until they start bringing him home with them,” Sandy said.

  Terri’s face fell.

  Sandy said softly, “What did I say?”

  “He’s coming home with them after school today.”

  Sandy and I grinned at each other, and Terri finally said, “Go ahead and get it out of your systems. I don’t want you two exploding on my account.”

  We laughed, and she finally joined in. “I feel better just talking about it.”

  “I’m always here for you,” Sandy said as they found a couch to share.

  That was one of things I loved about Donut Hearts. There was more to the place than donuts and coffee. It was, in its own way, a safe harbor in the storm of life.

  Twenty minutes later, two grown men came into the shop wearing Carolina Panthers football jerseys and matching hats. They barely glanced at me as they ordered a dozen donuts to go. Instead, they were debating the team’s off-season acquisitions as though the coach were standing by waiting for their advice.

  After they were gone, I realized that Emma was standing right beside me.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why do grown men get so attached to their sports teams?”

  “It’s usually innocent enough,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. You’d think that bankers, cops, and even judges had better things to do with their time.”

  “Hey, as long as they come in here for their donuts, they can talk about whatever they want to.”

  I got a call from George a little later. He said, “I’ve got some news about Blaine. I’ve been doing some digging, and to be honest with you, I don’t like what I’ve been hearing.”

  “Go on, tell me,” I said. “I know he wasn’t perfect, but he was still my friend.”

  George said, “From what I’ve heard around the courthouse, he was in some pretty severe financial trouble when he died. His credit cards were maxed out, the house Rita lives in is mortgaged to the rafters, and his car was about to be repossessed. Does that sound like a successful banker to you?”

  “What on earth did he do with his money?” I asked, remembering the ten-thousand-dollar withdrawal. I suddenly realized that I’d forgotten to tell George about finding the receipt. After I told him about it, I said, “I don’t know how anybody manages to get into that kind of debt.”

  He nodded. “That makes sense, based on some of the rumors I’ve heard swirling around. I suspect he was a gambler, and not a very good one at that. I should have more answers for you later, but I thought it might help you to know what I’ve been hearing.”

  “It definitely gives me something to think about,” I said. “It sounds like he was in some real trouble.”

  George said softly, “Well, we know that he didn’t shoot himself and then throw himself out of that car. So at least we can rule out suicide. Sorry, that wasn’t very tactful, was it?”

  “I’m sure you’re as frustrated as I am trying to figure out who did this.”

  After George hung up, I started thinking about what he’d told me. If Blaine was really that overextended, was there anything he wouldn’t do to get his hands on some cash? Was that why he’d been dealing with the investment broker and the construction company? Was he looking for a way to dig himself out, or had he gone for broke pushing through a dirty deal, and ended up losing everything?

  I didn’t know, but I had high hopes that before I was through digging into the man’s life, it would lead to more answers than questions.

  “I need ten dozen glazed donuts,” a heavyset man with gray hair said when he walked into the shop a little after eleven.

  That’s what I liked, big orders. “Sure,” I said as I got out my pad. “I’ll be glad to help. When would you like them?”

  “Right now,” he said, looking at me as if I were some kind of moron.

  I put my pen down. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  He looked up at the Donut Hearts sign over the register. “This is a donut shop, isn’t it?”

  “I hope so, or I’ll need to change all of my business cards.”

  “So what’s the problem?” he asked. “You make donuts, and I need some. I would think it would be a simple business transaction.”

  I wasn’t a big fan of being treated in such a condescending way, but then again, if I explained the situation to him, maybe he’d come back another day. “It takes twenty or thirty minutes to mix the dough for yeast donuts. Then it has to rise for forty minutes. After that, I punch the dough down, roll it out, and cut out the donuts. They proof for around thirty minutes then. After that, I can fry them and glaze them in fifteen minutes.”

  “So it takes
two hours,” he said. “Is that just for the glazed jobs?”

  “It is,” I admitted. “The cake donuts don’t take nearly that long. Maybe we can work something out after all.”

  He shook his head. “No, they have to be glazed.” The man checked his watch, then said, “Fine. I suppose I can wait that long if I have to. I’ll be back in two hours.”

  I stopped him before he got out the door. “I don’t think so.”

  “Now what’s the problem?” he asked.

  “We’ve already made the donuts for today. The kitchen is closed. If you’d like to order them for tomorrow, we’ll have them ready by 6 A.M.”

  I swear the man looked like he wanted to wring my neck. “That won’t do. You see, I need them today,” he said. “I don’t know what the problem is. I’m willing to pay you your going rate.”

  “That’s not the issue. I’ve been here since one-thirty this morning.”

  He nodded. “Now I understand. So, I’ll pay for the privilege. How much do you usually charge for ten dozen donuts?”

  If he’d been nicer to me, I would have quoted him a bulk rate with a nice discount, but instead, I gave him the same price he’d pay if he bought each donut individually.

  It didn’t even faze him. “I’ll double the price, then. What do you say to that?”

  “You’ll have to pay for them up front,” I said, still not all that enthused about going back into production, but slowly warming to the idea with the profits we’d make.

  “Put it on my credit card,” he said as he handed me his corporate account charge card.

  I rang up the order, watched as he signed the receipt, and then said, “See you in two hours.”

  I was starting to wish I’d padded the time it took. It was going to be tight having them ready by then.

  At least we’d make good money for the extra work.

  Emma had been sweeping the back room, so I called her out front.

  As she stowed her broom, she said, “It’s kind of quiet. Do you mind if I take off early today?”

  “Sorry, I was just about to ask you if you could work a little overtime. We just got an order for ten dozen glazed donuts.”