“Yeah, being as the ads said something about ‘better than any other donut shop in town.’ But there’s only one other shop in town. Mine.”
“Tell me what happened yesterday morning,” Shepherd said.
“Stan came blowing into my shop shouting at me. He accused me of trying to run him out of business. I told him the conversation was over, and he said we were going to keep talking about it until I ceased and desisted. I finally told him if he kept disturbing my customers, I was going to call the police. As he was going out the door, he shouted at me that ‘this’ wasn’t over by a long shot.”
“That’s pretty much what I heard,” Shepherd said.
“You heard about it?”
“I heard that the two of you had a pretty public argument.”
“We didn’t have an argument. I got yelled at. Big difference.”
He glanced down at his notebook in his lap, then back up at her. “Where did you go after you left your shop yesterday?”
“Home. I had to let Dave out.”
“Dave. Your dog.”
“Yep.”
“Did you leave your house at any point after that?”
“No. Well, to go outside into the back yard, but I guess that’s not what you meant.”
“So you went straight home after work, and you didn’t leave the house until when, when you came to work this morning?”
“That’s right,” she said, frowning.
“Did you have anyone over?”
“What business is—” she began, but stopped when she felt her stomach clench into a tight knot. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You want to know if I have an alibi.”
Shepherd nodded.
“Well, I don’t. I was supposed to go to an art show where my friend Amy was one of the featured artists. But I stayed home. I didn’t feel like going and making nice with a bunch of strangers.”
“Because you were angry.”
“Yes,” she said, hating the potential implications. “I’m a suspect, aren’t I?”
He shrugged. “Everyone’s a suspect until proven otherwise,” he said.
“But you’re not looking at me as one part of ‘everyone,’ are you? You’re looking at me as someone you think might have really killed him.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think you killed him. Which is why it’s bad that you don’t have an alibi.”
“You’re telling me,” she said.
They sat in silence for a moment. “So what happens next?” she asked. “Do you tell me not to leave town, like you did last time?”
He winced. “I didn’t say it exactly that way.”
“Well, for your information, I’m not planning on leaving town. I’ll be right here in good ol’ Hillside. You can investigate me to your heart’s content.”
“Heather, didn’t you hear me? I said I don’t think you did it.”
She held his gaze for a moment, saw that he was sincere. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now, aren’t you going to ask me anything about the murder?”
“I get to do that?” she asked.
“You can always ask.”
“All righty, then. How was he killed?”
“There was blunt force trauma to the back of the head. That may or may not have killed him. We’re waiting on the autopsy to establish whether he died from the trauma or from suffocation.”
“You mean he might have suffocated inside the deep freeze?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Heather shuddered. “What an awful way to go.”
“That it would be, indeed,” he said. He stood up, and she did, too. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”
“Please do,” she said.
***
When he had gone, she fished her purse out of the bottom drawer of her desk, retrieved her cell phone, and dialed Amy’s number. It rang once and then Amy’s voice said, “Hi! You have reached Amy….”
Heather sighed, waited through the recording, then left a message for Amy to call her back. She dropped the phone back in her purse, shut the desk drawer, and went out into the kitchen. Grabbing a coffee pot, she headed into the dining room to refill customers’ cups.
Only two customers needed more coffee. When she came to Eva’s regular table by the window, Eva put a hand over her coffee cup and said, “Do you have a moment to sit down?”
She sat down across from her favorite customer, a tiny, sweet-faced German woman with the most beautiful silver hair Heather had ever seen. Eva smiled at her. “How are you today?” she asked.
Heather shrugged. “Okay. Can’t complain.”
“I heard about what happened yesterday,” Eva said, taking a sip of her coffee.
“You mean when Stan came in here?”
“Was there something else?”
“Stan was murdered last night,” she said.
“Oh, good heavens,” Eva muttered. “That’s terrible.”
“Someone conked him over the head and shoved him into his deep freeze.”
Eva grimaced and waited for her to continue.
She leaned toward Eva and spoke in a whisper. “And the police think I might have killed him.”
Eva gasped. “Surely not!”
“Well, Detective Shepherd says he doesn’t really think I did it. But he still has to investigate me. And the problem is that I was home by myself yesterday, stewing about Stan. I have no alibi.” She spread her hands wide in a helpless gesture.
“Is Detective Shepherd that handsome officer who keeps coming in here?” Eva asked.
“Well, yes. He is.”
“Hmm.” Eva paused, thinking. “And he doesn’t think you did it.”
“Right.”
“So you have nothing to worry about.” Eva reached across the table and patted her hand. “Of course he has to investigate you. He has to investigate everyone the victim came in contact with during the last 24 hours.” Eva raised her napkin to her lips and delicately blotted them. “I know these things. I watch CSI.”
Visions of the elderly widow sitting in a small apartment watching the crime scene show made Heather grin. “I suppose you’re right,” she said.
“I know I’m right,” Evan said confidently. “He would be remiss in his duty if he didn’t ask you what you were doing last night. Especially after you had that big argument right here in front of all your customers.”
Heather chose not to correct Eva’s use of the word ‘argument.’ “You always have a way of making me feel better,” she said. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome,” Eva said.
But as Heather was walking back toward the kitchen to start work on a batch of Strawberry Shortcake donuts, her mind was whirling in a new direction.
If I didn’t kill him—and I didn’t!—then who did?
Chapter 3
Heather tucked her chin into the collar of her coat and darted across the parking lot toward the automatic doors. Once inside, she shivered, quickly extricated a shopping cart from the long line of carts, and pushed her cart further into the store, toward the bakery.
She always felt awkward buying items from the bakery section. After all, she owned a donut shop. Shouldn’t she be able to bake things?
But donuts were a whole different ballgame from, in this case, pies. She needed a pie to take to the Hillside Council for the Fine Arts Christmas party tonight. And she definitely didn’t want to take a pie that looked like the last one she’d tried to make herself.
Unfortunately, her grandmother’s talent for all things baked hadn’t been passed down to her. The only bakery item she could create to be consistently scrumptious was donuts. Oh, well. At least she’d inherited enough of MaMaw’s abilities to be able to open her own shop and make a living.
The first notes of “Here Comes the Sun” floated up from her purse. She grabbed her phone, saw Amy’s number, and accepted the call. “Hello?”
“Girl!
What do you mean the police suspect you? How could they? Is it that Detective Shepherd? Is he the one harassing you?”
“He’s not harassing me,” she said, “and he doesn’t really suspect me. He just has to investigate everyone the victim had contact with in the past 24 hours.”
There was a pause as Amy digested this. “I guess so,” Amy said. “At least, that’s what they do on CSI.” Another pause. “Well, you certainly sound better than you did when you left me that voice mail,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t need to talk?”
“I can’t right now. I’m at the grocery store picking up a pie for tonight and some other stuff.”
“Get a veggie tray for me, would you? I’m supposed to bring one, and I haven’t had time to go out. I’m working on an intricate piece.”
“Sure. No problem. See you tonight?”
“You better believe it. We’ll talk there.”
Heather realized she had stopped right in the middle of an aisle. Another customer was waiting politely behind her. She pushed her cart forward and located the pie section. As she stood there trying to decide which variety looked most impressive, she heard voices coming from the bakery counter just behind her.
“I was going to pick up some of those gourmet donuts from that donut shop on Oak Lane,” someone said. “But not after what I heard about that place.”
Heather sneaked a glance behind her to see a store employee handing a white box across the counter to a middle-aged woman in a long, heavy coat. She glanced away as the employee said, “Oh, really?”
“I heard they got cited for health department violations,” the customer said. “God only knows what goes on in that place.”
Health violations?
“Who knows?” the employee said. “Well, have a nice day.”
Heather forced herself not to look up as the woman pushed a cart past her. She could almost feel the steam coming out of her ears. Health department violations? No way! Where in the world had the woman heard that?
Maybe from Stan? Heather chuffed out a disgusted breath. Probably. But now, she’d probably never know. Oh, well. At least, if it was Stan, he wouldn’t be spreading any more rumors about her and her products.
Wonder how many other people heard that and maybe believed it? she fumed as she pushed her cart toward the deli for Amy’s veggie tray. Probably not too many, she decided as she grabbed the first veggie tray she saw. Business has been okay lately. Better than okay, in fact. It’s been great. And besides, my customers are loyal. They know me.
Stan’s jealousy and underhanded tactics hadn’t had the effect he apparently desired. Not against her, anyway. But how many more people had Stan made accusations against? Had one of those people felt threatened and wanted to silence his claims?
I need to visit his shop, she decided. Tomorrow morning—if it’s still open. See what I can find out. Maybe I can pick up a clue as to who hated him enough to kill him.
***
Ahhhh, the scent of pine, Heather thought, and tried not to be too obvious about sniffing the air. Mingled with the piney scent emanating from the hanging garlands and table arrangements everywhere were the aromas of a variety of side dishes and desserts, not to mention the entrée choices, orange-honey-glazed ham and enchiladas with sour cream sauce.
At least they’d had the entrees catered, she thought, as she looked for a place to set down Amy’s vegetable tray and her pie. Several members of the Hillside Council for the Fine Arts had wanted to have the entire event catered, but in the end, budget constraints won out, and they voted to hire a caterer for the entrees and have guests bring the rest.
She set down her pie on the cranberry-red tablecloth that covered the dessert table and quickly separated the plastic lid from the silver pie dish. Glancing at the other dessert offerings, she saw that apparently she wasn’t the only one who’d gone the store-bought route. Good.
She slipped into the kitchen to throw the lid away and almost ran smack-dab into Sheila Hampton, president of the council and owner of the beautiful home in which the party was taking place. “Heather, how nice to see you,” Sheila gushed as she tried to edge past. “Did you bring some of your wonderful donuts?”
“I brought a pecan pie.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure it’ll be delicious. Thank you so much for coming,” Sheila said, and made her escape, disappearing into the crowd.
Heather fingered the dangly silver necklace she wore over her bright red sweater and edged further into the kitchen. She located the trash can beside the kitchen island and tossed the lid in.
Once she’d manage to extricate herself from the crowded kitchen and make her way to the drink table, she poured herself a glass of white wine and sipped it slowly.
Big parties weren’t her thing. Sure, she enjoyed people—it was kind of hard being in business if you didn’t—but she wasn’t a big fan of making small talk. She’d much rather attend a smaller, more intimate party where everyone knew everyone pretty well and therefore had actual reasons to chat rather than having to make something up to be polite.
“Hey there. Heather, right?”
She looked up to see a tall, curly-haired man wearing a burgundy-red sweater over a button-down shirt smiling at her. Reluctantly, she returned the smile. “Yes. Heather. Have we met?”
“Not officially. I’m Rob Gingrich. I keep the books for the Council.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
“You own the gourmet donut shop over on Oak, right?”
“Donut Delights. Yes, I do.”
Gingrich grimaced. “I guess you heard about what happened to Stan Dombrowski.”
“I heard it on the news this morning,” she said, wondering why on earth he was still talking to her.
“So did I. Ten years of being his accountant, and I hear about his death on the news,” he said.
This guy had been Stan’s accountant? Suddenly, she was interested in the conversation. “That must have been quite a shock,” she murmured, and saw him nod. “Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to his shop now?”
“I don’t know for sure. I know Mrs. Dombrowski wants to sell the franchise.”
“She’s already decided to sell?”
“Oh, she’s wanted to sell for years now. But Stan wasn’t interested.”
“Why did she want to sell?”
“I can’t tell you outright. Client confidentiality. But let’s just say that business wasn’t as good as she wanted it to be.”
“They were losing money?”
“Hand over fist,” he said. “Keep that to yourself?”
“Of course,” she said, then wondered if she would be able to keep her promise. Shouldn’t she tell Shepherd?
“So…are you here with anyone tonight?” Gingrich asked.
“I’m meeting someone,” she answered, mentally crossing her fingers at the little white lie. Well, it was true, wasn’t it? She was meeting Amy. Just not romantically.
“Ah. Very well then.” He gave her a half bow. “Have a great evening.”
“Wait a minute,” she said, stretching her hand out toward him. “You said you worked for Stan for ten years. What was he like to work for?”
Gringrich’s eyes lost the easygoing look and became dark. “Everything was fine until he started accusing me of embezzling money from him,” he said. “Which I did not do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He flashed her a polite smile that held no warmth, and walked away.
Well that was interesting, she thought. Another person against whom Stan made false accusations. At least, I assume they’re false. But Rob was obviously angry about them. Still is. Could he have gotten angry enough to shut Stan up permanently?
“There you are,” Amy said, appearing at her side in a clingy black dress with cranberry-red accessories. “Who was that hottie you were just talking to? Was he trying to pick you up?”
“He was at first,” Heather said. “That was Stan’s accountant. Former accountant now, I guess. He was
interested right up until I asked him how he liked working for Stan.”
“What did he say?”
“Said everything was fine until Stan falsely accused him of embezzling business funds.”
“Wow. Sounds like Stan should have taken that course on How to Win Friends and Influence People. Step 1: Don’t accuse them of stuff they didn’t do.”
Chapter 4
Stan’s national-chain donut shop was located in a strip shopping center that was, ironically, only a few blocks from the police station. At 7:00 in the morning, there were only a few cars in the parking lot, and looked like most of them were in front of the laundromat or the convenience store.
Maple Frosted Murder (Donut Hole 2) Page 2