Passion Fruit Punch Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 34

by Susan Gillard

  Oh yeah, Col definitely wasn’t the gym bunny kind. His natural physique came from lifting boxes and spending hours outdoors.

  “What else?” Heather asked.

  “He volunteers at the Hillside Children’s Shelter,” Col replied. “Come to think of it, I know he had some trouble with the woman who runs the place. I remember he mentioned something like that a few days ago, but had my head in the clouds. Tea clouds, ha. I was busy unloading boxes.”

  Heather made a mental note of it. She’d left Donut Delights in a rush and forgotten her handy tablet in her tote behind the counter.

  “Did you ever fight with Freddy?” Heather asked.

  “No, heavens no. We were fine. We were getting to know each other, since I’m new, but we were just fine.” Col let go of his jeans and shuffled his open sandals along the distressed wooden boards. “I’m telling you, I’d never do anything to hurt him or anyone else.”

  The beads rattled, and Ryan poked his head through the rows of them. “Heather, can I see you out here for a minute?”

  Heather gave Col her best smile of encouragement, then bustled out into the store. She strode around the counter and met her husband in the center of the room. The tea stain against the wall drew her gaze.

  That had to be from Amy. Bits of China littered the floor beside the vending machine.

  “I’ve taken a sample of the uh – the cobbler whatsit tea,” Ryan said.

  “Peach Cobbler Guayusa,” Heather said. She’d heard the name once, but she had a knack for pronunciation. It came from years of working in the food industry.

  “That one,” Ryan said. “But that’s beside the point, now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just got a call from Hillside Regional,” Ryan replied. “Freddy Mars’ doctor has made an analysis on what caused his collapse.”

  “It wasn’t poisoning,” Heather said and lowered her tone. The green light seeped into her consciousness, and the hum of the vending machine soothed her. Col hadn’t hurt his friend, after all.

  “No, it wasn’t poisoning. The doctor says that he’s got a Subdural Hematoma,” Ryan replied. “It’s bleeding between the membranes which surround the brain, apparently.”

  “He got hit on the head?” Heather asked.

  “Yeah, it results from trauma to the head, and the doctor’s best guess, in this case, is he was hit on the back of the head, near the base of his spine,” Ryan replied.

  Confusion chased away Heather’s usual sense of calm. The green light didn’t seem all that soothing anymore. “But that’s impossible. Amy and I were here when he arrived. He didn’t get hit on the head in front of us. And he’d just been out cycling.”

  “I asked about that,” Ryan said. “Apparently, it’s possible that Freddy might’ve been hit on the head and it caused what the doc called a ‘slow bleed.’ Freddy could’ve walked around for a couple of days and seemed fine, but collapsed once it became severe.”

  Heather pressed her fingers to her lips. Her eyes darted from left to right, examining the memory of what’d transpired that morning.

  “That makes sense,” she said, quietly. “He acted strangely in here. He was pale and sweaty, and he kept swallowing. Then he stumbled from left to right.” Heather moved in either direction to demonstrate.

  “The early morning ride could’ve aggravated the injury,” Ryan said. “My best guess is he was hit a day or two days before the collapse.”

  “Can they treat him?” Heather asked.

  “They’re doing the best they can, but it doesn’t look good.” Ryan slipped his arm around her shoulder and squeezed tight.

  “Struck on the back of the head,” she muttered. “He could’ve fallen.”

  “I don’t know for sure, but it’s a very specific place to have fallen. They’re doing x-rays, now. We’ll know if he’s got any spinal, uh, fractures soon enough. I’m considering this an attempted homicide,” he said. “And I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  Heather hugged her husband, once, then detached from the embrace. “You’ve got it.”

  Chapter 4

  “How come I didn’t know about this place?” Amy asked, and wrestled with the end of Dave’s leash. She tugged left, and Dave wandered right. She dragged right, and Dave stopped dead in his tracks to scratch underneath his collar.

  “I’ve never heard of it either,” Heather replied. “It must be relatively new.”

  Cupcake trotted along on the end of her magenta leash, her fluffy white tail high in the air. It flicked from side-to-side, whenever Ames stepped too close.

  “These animals are conspiring against me,” Amy muttered.

  “I told you, you shouldn’t have told Cupcake she shouldn’t take walks. You embarrassed her,” Lilly said, and kept pace beside them. She readjusted her grip on the straps of her school backpack. “She’s a proud kitten.”

  “She’s certainly repaid me for it. I haven’t had this many scratches since… no, I haven’t had this many scratches, ever,” Amy said and pinched the sleeve of her puffy coat. “At least I have some padding. I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like once we hit spring.”

  “All you have to do is apologize,” Lilly said.

  Cupcake meow-purred a confirmation. Of course, Lilly had managed to pick out the cheekiest cat in the entire world.

  Princess Cupcake expected everyone to bow to her will. Apart from Dave, who bowed to no one but a donut.

  “It should be just around the corner,” Heather said, and marched down the road, the afternoon sun glazing the back of her neck with a thin sheen of perspiration.

  They’d decided to let Lilly come along on this adventure, partly because Ames and Lils could hang out in the shelter and talk to the other kids, and partly because Lilly had absolutely insisted.

  She’d talked a lot about helping others, but she hadn’t picked out a charity yet. Perhaps, this would be it.

  It’d suit her, after what’d she’d been through.

  “There,” Amy said and jerked her chin toward the three-story, brick building just ahead of them.

  Iron gates surrounded it and a long stretch of grass beside it, decorated by swings and a merry-go-round.

  “Cool!” Lilly said, and quickened her pace.

  They hurried to match it and jogged up the front stairs of the building and to the barred, glass doors.

  Heather pressed the button beside the intercom, then looked up at the camera under the eaves and waved.

  Dave sat down on Amy’s foot. She didn’t bother kicking him off.

  The intercom buzzed. “Hillside Children’s Shelter, how may we help?” The woman’s snooty tone didn’t suit the words.

  “Hi there, we’ve come to check out the shelter to see if we’d be able to volunteer,” Heather said. She paused and chewed her bottom lip. “I’m here to talk to Hilda Groats, as well.”

  The intercom remained silent. The door buzzed a second later, and Amy forced it open. “I guess that means we’re allowed to go in.”

  Lilly swept Cupcake into her arms, and Heather handed her the end of the leash.

  They bustled through the open door and into the lobby of the shelter. Pale blue carpeting led down the hall toward an open living area. Hand drawn pictures lined the walls, each marked with the name of the artist.

  “Wow,” Lilly whispered, and stroked Cupcake’s furry head. “These are amazing.”

  “So colorful,” Ames agreed.

  They paced down the hall and into the living area. Kids sat on lime green and bright orange sofas around the room, each with a book in their lap. A few adult volunteers wandered through the room and halted to provide aid here or there.

  Silence nestled its head on the air. A gentle quiet, apart from the rustle of a page.

  It felt sacred.

  Lilly positioned herself beside the door and hugged Cupcake to her chest, eyes wide.

  Dave barked, and everyone in the room looked up. One of the kids, a young boy about Lilly�
�s age, clapped his hands and grinned at the sight of the dog.

  “Come here, boy,” he said.

  Dave tugged on the end of the leash and pulled free of Amy’s grip. “Hey,” Amy yelped, but Heather touched her friend’s arm and held her back.

  “Come here!”

  Dave streaked across the carpet and leaped into the little boy’s arms. He licked and licked the kid’s face, and the child giggled, hysterically. “Ew, this is so gross.”

  Dave didn’t care, and the boy didn’t stop him.

  Lilly burst out laughing, and twenty odd voices joined her.

  “May I help you?” A woman whispered, in Heather’s ear.

  She flinched but kept the shriek of surprise tucked behind her lips. She turned around and moved out of the living area, toward the woman in the hall. Ames and Lilly stayed behind.

  “Are you the owner of the shelter?”

  “We’re a non-profit organization,” the woman said, and smoothed her steel gray pants suit.

  “So you own it?” Heather didn’t know much about the inner workings of non-profit organizations.

  “I’m not the president, no,” the woman replied. “I’m Hilda Groats. I’m one of the members of the board. I organize the volunteers and live on site.” Her voice carried none of the joy it should have.

  “Hilda,” Heather said. “I’d like to talk to you in private if that’s possible?”

  “We’re due to have an afternoon snack in,” Hilda cut off and checked her silver watch. “In twenty minutes. You have that long.” She didn’t lead Heather to an office.

  Apparently, the hall was a perfectly suitable place for an interview.

  “I’m Heather Shepherd,” she said and extended her hand.

  Hilda squeezed it with hers and flashed her expensive manicure. “What do you want to talk about?” Her short-cut gray hair bounced with each movement of her stiff neck.

  “I’m a consultant with the Hillside Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Freddy Mars. It’s come to my attention that he volunteered here,” Heather said.

  “That’s correct,” Hilda replied. “He donated, volunteered and made a general nuisance of himself. He thought he could run the shelter better than the board of trustees.” Bitterness dripped from Hilda’s words.

  “When last did you hear from Freddy?” Heather asked.

  “Oh, a few days ago,” she replied. “He came in to spend some time helping the kids with their sports training, but he didn’t stay long. He seemed distracted.”

  “Distracted,” Heather said. “How?”

  “I must look like a mind reader,” Hilda said and lifted her watch-bearing wrist again. “I have no idea, why. He wasn’t forthcoming with me unless it was to argue yet another point about the shelter and my mismanagement thereof. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” The woman clip-clopped toward the living area.

  “Ms. Groats, wait a second,” Heather said.

  “Not for you.” Hilda entered the living area and clapped her hands. “All right, everyone, it’s time for snacks!”

  Heather’s jaw dropped. The woman’s voice had transformed into a light, airy imitation of the natural one she’d used seconds before.

  Suspicion tapped in Heather’s mind. Tip-tap – Hilda Groats hadn’t liked Freddy Mars. Could she have had the motivation to hurt him?

  Chapter 5

  Dawn settled on the streets of Hillside, bringing with it pale morning light and an ethereal mist which tugged at Heather’s cheeks and iced her lips. Mist usually brought hot weather later on in the day, but that wouldn’t make a difference to Amy.

  “I can handle getting up early in the morning, Heather,” Ames said. “Really, I can.”

  “Lying doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’m serious. I can handle it, but only when I know there’s a hot pot of coffee and a donut at the end of the very bleak morning tunnel,” Amy said. She raised her coat-ensconced arm and jabbed her index finger toward the small wooden slatted house, sandwiched between two others exactly like it. “Does that look like a pot of coffee and a donut?”

  “No.”

  “No, it does not, Heather Shepherd. So why, oh why, am I here? Do me the distinct favor of telling me that,” Amy said.

  “Because you asked to come with me on my morning sleuthin’ adventure,” Heather replied.

  Amy opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut again. “Curse you and your fantastic memory.”

  “Ames, you asked me last night. It was hardly a stretch to remember that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Are we going to stand out here all day and talk about investigating?” Amy inclined her head toward Freddy Mars’ house. “Or are we actually going to, you know, investigate.”

  “I could expound lengthily on the hypocrisy of that statement,” Heather said, and traipsed up the long path which led to the two, weathered front steps.

  “Expound all you want,” Amy said. “Maybe the hot air will warm the atmosphere.”

  Heather chose to ignore the jibe and took the front keys to Freddy Mars’ house out of her pocket instead. Ryan had officially named this an investigation the night before, after the hospital had reported that the trauma to Freddy’s neck had definitely been caused by a blunt object.

  There wasn’t a chance he’d sustained it from a fall.

  Heather inserted the keys into the lock.

  “Who’s that?!” A man yelled from the house next door. Footsteps creaked on the porch right beside Freddy’s.

  Amy jumped and grasped the rail, then peered at the old man who charged toward them.

  “Who are you? You trespassing?” He yelled.

  “Friendly neighborhood,” Amy muttered.

  “I’m Heather Shepherd,” Heather said, and left the keys hanging in the door. She turned to meet the cranky neighbor.

  He strode down his path, cut across the grass, then marched toward them, his shoulder-length gray hair fluttered from the speed. He nursed his arm in a sling, and narrowed his murky green eyes at them. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” she said. “I’m working with the Hillside Police Department to find out who attacked Freddy Mars.”

  “Freddy was attacked?” The old man asked, and glanced over either shoulder. “Around here?”

  “I can’t confirm that,” Heather said. “I’m sorry, who are you, sir?”

  “Sir is right,” he replied. “I’m Julian Dunkle. I would shake your hand but I don’t like touching folks. Dirty. Germs everywhere.”

  Heather restrained her comment. Julian, after all, didn’t look to have bathed in a few days. His hair had taken on the dull, greased out scheme of an unwashed miscreant.

  “You’re Freddy’s neighbor?” Heather asked.

  “That’s right, I am, I am,” Julian said. “Other guy is the man who owns that fruity tea shop in the main road. Freak.”

  “This conversation is a delight.” Amy clasped her hands in front of her chest and fluttered her eyelashes.

  “Mr. Dunkle, did you hear anything strange from Freddy Mars’ house a few nights ago?” Heather asked.

  The old man tucked long strands of his hair behind his ear. “I hear strange things from this house all the time,” he replied. “Loud music, arguments.”

  “When did you hear an argument?” Heather asked.

  “About oh, three nights ago. I put on my headphones to tune it out,” Dunkle said, and shifted his broken arm. “The guy made a habit out of fighting with anyone who visited him.”

  “But you didn’t actually see who visited him that night?” Heather asked.

  “No. I’m not a snooper,” he replied, and pursed his lips at her. He flicked his gaze to Amy too. “Snooping is for the weak willed.”

  Amy’s spine stiffened.

  “How did you break your arm, Mr. Dunkle?” Heather asked.

  “Fell down the stairs,” he said.

  “Those two tiny steps in front of your house?” Amy
folded her arms across her chest and the material of her puffy coat swished. “I can see how you’d miss those.”

  “You’ve got a smart mouth.”

  “And a mind to match,” Amy retorted.

  “I don’t like you,” Dunkle replied, and a scowl twisted his greasy features.

  “Mr. Dunkle, thank you for answering my questions,” Heather said. “I really appreciate that. But I’m afraid I have to get back to my investigation, now.”

  “Fine,” Dunkle said. “I was on my way to the store, anyway.” He stomped off down the garden path and onto the sidewalk, grumbling under his breath, all the way.

  “Always fun to run into the local residents,” Amy said, and cleared her throat.

  Heather turned back to Freddy’s pale front door and turned the key in the lock. It clicked, and she tried the handle. The door swung inward on a square living area, which took up the entirety of the bottom floor of the house.

  A kitchen hid in the corner of the room, behind a wall divider, and two mauve sofas sat at opposite ends of a polished coffee table.

  The scent of wood polish and detergent drifted through the space.

  “He kept the place clean,” Heather said, and entered the room. The cops had already been in the day before, to sweep for evidence and take any samples of DNA to the lab.

  Ryan had mentioned a blood stain in the living room, a small one which may have come from a cut on Freddy’s scalp.

  But how did blunt force trauma result in a cut? Perhaps, it was the angle from which the attacker had struck him.

  A collection of papers sat on the coffee table, caught beneath a glass paper stopper.

  “What are those?” Amy asked, and walked up to the papers.

  “I see you’ve developed an eye for the suspicious, Ms. Givens,” Heather replied. Heather lifted the ball and tested its weight in her palm. She thrust it toward Amy.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?” Amy asked, but took it anyway.

  Heather sat down on Freddy’s sofa and picked up the documents. She rifled through them. “Bills, bills, bills, and oh, hello. What’s this?”

  “What is it?” Amy asked, and tossed the glass orb from one hand to the other.