by Jessica Beck
“You were pretty angry with him when we spoke.”
“My, I must go on when I’m drinking. That must be why I so rarely imbibe.”
“But you’re not denying you were expecting a big payoff, are you?”
She laughed ruefully. “No, I’m not denying it. I’ve taken the money provided by the insurance company and paid for his funeral. With what’s left—though it’s not much—I plan to buy a karaoke machine in his honor.”
“Did he like to sing?”
“No, he was dreadful at it. Patrick once claimed the only thing worse than his singing was mine, and I plan on serenading him at the service. Quite a gesture, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say it shows you aren’t ready to let go,” I said. “That’s another motive for murder, isn’t it?”
“Just who are you?” she asked as she put her coffee cup down.
“I’m working on a story for the newspaper,” I said.
“We’ll just see about that,” she said as she reached for the telephone. “I know Ray quite well.”
It was time to lie to her yet again. “It’s not for the April Springs Sentinel. It’s for the Observer.”
She put the phone down. “I don’t know anyone there. Why are you so curious about me, though?”
“You must admit, you weren’t the model of decorum the other day.”
“No, but I’ve already apologized for that, haven’t I?”
I took a deep breath, then said, “So you won’t mind if I ask where you were the night of the murder, would you?”
“I could tell you, but it’s nothing I want plastered all over a newspaper.”
I said, “You can tell me off the record, if you’d like.”
She frowned at me. “Does that really work? I thought it was some kind of twist the movie people came up with.”
I didn’t know if it was or not, but I needed to convince her that it was true. “If you tell me something in confidence, I can’t print it, or you could sue me for everything I own, plus get me fired. Do you think I’d be willing to risk that?”
She shrugged. “I assume not.” Rita bit her lower lip, then said, “At any rate, I don’t suppose there’s any reason to keep it a secret. I’ve already told the police, and they’ve cleared me of all suspicion.”
That would have been good to know, but since the chief wasn’t keeping me in the loop—and neither was Jake Bishop, for that matter—I had to find out these things on my own. “I’m listening,” I said.
“I was at Murphy’s Diner in Union Square, milking a cup of coffee and a slice of pie all night long while I waited for my husband’s mistress at a hotel room across the street with her other boyfriend. I was going to prove to Patrick that she wasn’t worth dumping me for. Pathetic, isn’t it, the scorned ex-wife fighting to get her husband back.” She stood, then said, “Hang on a second, let me get the photos.”
I watched her dig into her purse, and for a second, for some irrational reason, I thought she was looking for a gun.
It was with great relief that I saw her pull out a blue and yellow packet of photographs instead.
The first photograph showed Deb Jenkins going into a hotel room across the street with Lincoln Klein. There was a clock that showed clearly in the picture on the wall of the diner, and it read 10:15. From the darkness outside, it was obvious it had been taken at night.
“This could have been taken any night,” I said.
“Look at the next shot.”
I flipped to the next photo and saw Lincoln disappearing into the room, but the focus was on the newspaper sitting on the table in the foreground. It was a copy of the April Springs Sentinel, and it had the date of the day before someone had dumped Patrick Blaine’s body in front of my donut shop.
“Go to the next shot,” Rita coaxed me.
I did, and found the next photo showed Deb and Lincoln leaving the hotel. The clock now read 2:45. Not only had Rita offered an alibi for herself, she’d also eliminated two of my other suspects.
“These could have been doctored,” I said.
“They could have been, but the police were satisfied, so I think you should be, too. Since there’s nothing else to discuss, I’m afraid I need to ask you to leave. Unless you feel like singing a little karaoke with me so I can practice. The memorial service starts in an hour, and I need to get warmed up.”
“Sorry. I’ve got other plans.”
“I only wish I did,” she said.
I went back to my Jeep with a new perspective. Without realizing it, Rita had given me the key to figuring out what had really happened. With the list of my suspects so drastically narrowed down, I had a very good idea who had killed one of my favorite customers. I knew in my heart that it couldn’t have been my ex-husband, and I’d probably known it all along. While I had to admit that it was dramatic enough for Max to have approached me in the park with no more intent than to keep me safe by scaring me half to death, there was no real reason he would kill Patrick Blaine, at least none that I was aware of.
That left one of two cops who had to have done it.
But I still wasn’t sure which one.
ORANGE SPICE CAKE DONUTS
These donuts sport a subtle orange touch, something I’m always game for. They can be glazed with a topping flavored with orange extract, dusted with powdered sugar, or eaten while they’re still warm.
INGREDIENTS
2 tablespoons canola oil
1 cup granulated sugar
½ stick butter (¼ cup)
3 egg yolks, beaten
1 tablespoon orange extract
Zest of one orange, fine
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup milk (2% or whole)
1 tablespoon baking powder
3–4 cups flour
DIRECTIONS
Mix the oil, sugar, milk, egg yolks, cinnamon, orange extract, and orange zest until combined well. Sift the flour and baking powder together, then add to the liquid, stirring well. This will make a stiff dough.
Chill the dough for about 1 hour, then turn it out onto a floured surface, knead it into a ball, then roll the dough out to about ½-inch to ¼-inch thickness. Use your donut cutter and cut the rounds and holes, then fry them for about 2 minutes on each side in 375-degree oil until they’re done. Turn out onto paper towels to drain, then enjoy plain or add a top-ping.
Makes 1 dozen donuts.
CHAPTER 12
I dialed Jake’s telephone number, trying to figure out what I was going to say to him, when the call went straight to his voice mail.
“Hi, you’re reached Officer Jacob Bishop. Leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Jake, this is Suzanne. Call me as soon as you get this. We need to talk.”
I was getting ready to add my suspicions when the machine cut off. My hesitation must have come across as the end of the message, and I thought about calling Jake back, but did I really want my suspicions recorded on his telephone? What if I was wrong? Did I really want there to be concrete evidence that I’d accused a cop of murder?
I got into my Jeep and tried to figure out what my next move was. I must have driven around for an hour, because I still hadn’t come up with anything by five, and my rumbling stomach demanded to be fed.
It was a better idea than any I’d had so far, so I pulled into the Boxcar for a quick bite to eat. Maybe I’d find inspiration there, but at the very least, I’d get fed.
I walked into the narrow boxcar, hoping to find a seat by myself. Trish tried to get my attention, but I wasn’t in the mood to chat with the owner, so I kept walking, offering her a wave as I passed the grill.
“Suzanne,” she called out. “I need to talk to you.”
I moved to the counter, and before I could ask her what was going on, the restroom door opened and Max walked out.
“Sorry, that was it,” she said.
“Thanks for trying.” I was in no mood to see Max, especially after spotting that bandag
e on his arm earlier, but I wasn’t going to let him run me out of my favorite diner, either.
I took a booth as far away as I could from where Max was sitting, but he approached me anyway.
As he slid onto the seat beside me, I said, “Sorry. That seat’s taken.”
“I don’t see anyone sitting there,” he said.
“That’s because he’s not here yet.”
“Then I’ll move when he gets here,” Max said. “We need to talk.”
I couldn’t believe how obstinate he was being. “Trust me, Max, you don’t want to talk to me right now.”
“What’s gotten into you?” he asked. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
That was enough. “Who should I be acting like, Max? You? One second it’s roses in front of my shop, and the next you’re attacking me.”
I don’t think he could have been any more surprised if I’d proposed to him.
“What are you talking about?”
I jabbed his covered forearm. “How’d you get hurt, Max? Care to tell me that?”
“One of the props fell on me, and I had to block it from crushing my skull.”
“Prove it.”
He shook his head. “How could I possibly do that? I was working by myself when it happened.” He paused, then his eyes grew cold. “Wait a second. Are you talking about what happened at the park? You can’t be serious.”
“I stabbed my attacker with a fingernail. Is that what you’re covering up?”
He pulled back his shirtsleeve and ripped off the bandage. I saw in an instant that it was far more damage than I ever could have done.
“I didn’t attack you. Satisfied?”
“You could have made it worse on purpose, in case someone demanded to see it,” I said. “It’s exactly that kind of melodramatic thing you’d do, scaring the life out of me to get me to back off my investigation.”
“You’ve lost your mind completely, haven’t you?” Max stood, then stormed out of the diner.
Trish came over. “I was about ready to call the cops. What was that all about?”
“Sorry, but I had to make it clear where we stood.”
Trish whistled, then said, “I think you took care of that. I’ve never seen him so mad.”
“Stick around, I bet I can make him even madder.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to mess with you tonight, woman. You’re dangerous.”
“Not to my friends,” I said.
“Then I’m glad I’m counted among them. What will you have?”
“Let’s go crazy. How about a hamburger, fries, and a chocolate shake?”
“Sounds good. Why don’t I have Hilda make two, and I’ll join you.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Honestly, you don’t need to babysit me.”
“Are you kidding? I haven’t had a bite all day. I’ve been looking for an excuse to get off my feet for a bit.”
“Then that sounds good.”
Ten minutes later, she came back with a tray brimming with food. “Let’s dig in while it’s slow. Hilda’s got the register, and Gladys came in early to cook for the dinner shift.”
Trish stabbed a French fry into a pile of ketchup, then pointed it at me like a finger. “Now, what’s going on with you? I heard you got mugged in the park.”
“There’s not much to tell,” I said, sick of recounting the tale yet again.
“From the way I hear it, you were surrounded, but you fought your way out, and three of them are in the hospital.”
I shook my head. “One guy grabbed me from behind. I jabbed him with a fingernail and he let me go. End of story.”
Trish frowned. “I like the other version better. It made you sound like some kind of Wonder Woman or something.”
“Okay, but I’m not wearing the outfit.”
Trish sipped her shake, then said, “I can’t blame you there. I’d have to diet for a year to fit into those shorts, and what fun would that be?”
“If I got an invisible plane and a magic lasso, it might be worth it,” I said. “But probably not.”
We both laughed at that, and soon enough, our meals were finished.
As I pulled a ten from my purse, I said, “Trish, I can’t tell you how much I needed that.”
“I was pretty hungry myself,” she said.
“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it,” I said.
“I’m here any time you need someone to talk to,” she said.
I touched her hand lightly. “I know, and I appreciate it.”
As I headed for the door, she asked, “So, off to fight more crime?”
I stifled a yawn, then said, “To tell you the truth, I’m beat. I think I’m going home so I can go to bed.”
“I don’t know how you do it. Your schedule would kill me,” she said.
“It’s trying,” I answered as I walked down the iron steps, over the old train track, and toward my Jeep. Jake hadn’t called me back, and I was a little miffed about that, but when I thought about calling him back, I just grew wearier. I didn’t have much fight left in me, and I didn’t want to waste it on him.
I drove home, made my excuses to Momma, turned off my phone, then curled up with a good book and fell asleep before seven o’clock. I’d been missing too much sleep lately, and it was time to start catching up.
I felt good when my alarm went off a little after one A.M. As I dressed, I thought about what the day would bring, and how I could find out more about Officer Grant. I needed something more than a rumor to take to Jake. But proof was tougher to get than I’d ever realized.
I left the house, warmed up the Jeep, then headed to the donut shop. I used to love the short drive there, when I had the world all to myself, but lately, all I saw were shadows and wondered what they were hiding. It was amazing how much my perspective had changed since Patrick Blaine’s body had been dumped in front of Donut Hearts.
I went through my new, expedited routine of using my headlights to illuminate the storefront as I raced inside to turn on every light in the place. After that, it was a quick dash back outside to park the Jeep in front of the shop, then dead-bolt myself back inside.
My heart was racing by the time I finished my checklist, but at least I was safe.
I turned the deep fryer on as I passed it on my way to my office to check any messages I might have gotten overnight.
There was a neon numeral 2 illuminated.
“Hey, Suzanne. Sorry to do this to you at the last minute, but I feel awful, and I won’t be able to make it in. Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.” Emma was sick, and I’d known it was a possibility, given the way we’d left things the day before. It meant a longer morning with a great deal more work, but there wasn’t anybody I could call, especially at two in the morning. I’d have to cut back on a couple of the experiments I’d been planning to try, but I should be fine.
The next call was from Jake. He sounded clearly aggravated as he said, “Your cell phone is off, and your ringer at home must not be working, either. I’m returning your call. Sorry it’s taken me so long, but I finally have a lead in the case. I should have this wrapped up soon. Behave yourself until I do, Suzanne.”
I had to laugh at that. Jake hadn’t known me long, but from the amused tone in his voice, it was clear he knew better than to think I’d take that last bit of advice.
I was measuring out the different portions of flour for the morning batch of cake donuts when I replayed everything I’d learned about Patrick Blaine’s life over the last several days. I went into kind of a Zen thing when I worked alone, having done it so much that I didn’t really need to focus all that much on the process.
I replayed past conversations I’d had with both Officer Moore and Officer Grant, and thought about the times I’d interacted with them in the course of my investigation. While Officer Grant’s inquiries had been routine, I suddenly realized that Officer Moore was the one who had been pressing me about what I’d seen the night of Patrick Blaine�
�s murder well past the time he should have dropped it and moved on.
There was something else that had been nagging at me.
Who was the first person on the scene after I’d reported the crime to the police?
Officer Moore.
Who had pointed my suspicions away from himself by claiming other suspects had wounds to their arms?
Officer Moore.
And who had bragged about being a Carolina Panthers fan right in front of me? I suddenly realized that had been the symbol I’d seen on the faded sweatshirt of the killer.
I was right the first time; it had been a cat, or more accurately, a panther.
Officer Moore.
I dug into the top drawer in my office and took out my copy of the statement I’d given him on the night of the murder, something I hadn’t even glanced at since he’d given it to me. Then I took out the parking ticket with the time and date printed on the back.
The sevens were identical with their slashes across the middle. Officer Moore had been the one who’d demanded a meeting with Patrick Blaine. But why?
And then I remembered the rumor George had heard about dirty cops on the April Springs police force. Maybe Patrick had uncovered something on a dirty cop. Was it dangerous enough information to get him killed?
I really had to talk to Jake now.
I was dialing his cell phone, regardless of the hour, and just as the call went straight to his voice mail, there was a banging at the front door. Grabbing the knife I’d used before, I came out of the kitchen and looked outside into the darkness.
Jake was leaning against the front door.
Then on the glass I saw the smeared blood coming from his chest.
I dropped the knife in my hand and struggled to open the door.
As I did, Jake collapsed in my arms.
I had to get him some help.
And then someone else came rushing in.
I wasn’t at all surprised to see that it was the man I’d just realized was a cold-blooded killer.
“Why did you do it?” I asked Moore as I held Jake in my arms on the floor. I put my fingers on his throat and found a slight, whispering pulse, and he was taking short, shallow breaths. He wasn’t in very good shape, but at least he was still alive.