Maple Frosted Murder (Donut Hole 2)

by Susan Gillard

  “Pleasure, Heather.”

  She turned toward the kitchen. As she walked away, she could have sworn she heard Ryan mutter to Bill, “Thanks a lot.”

  What in the world was going on?

  ***

  Heather sat in one of the wicker chairs on her front porch, her feet propped on a matching ottoman. She loved the huge, wraparound porch on her 1920’s house, loved being able to sit out on it and watch the world go by virtually all year long.

  Yesterday, the temperature had been in the 30’s. Today, it was in the 60’s. But that was Texas weather for you, especially in December. Winter one day, spring the next.

  Sunday was her day off. Most Sundays, she loved to relax around the house, enjoying her porch and her coffee and her dog, and maybe the occasional black-and-white movie. She was what she had recently read referred to as an “extroverted introvert”—a person who loved being around people, but who definitely needed time alone to recharge.

  So that was what Sunday was for—recharging. She spent most of the day alone, then some Sunday evenings, like this one, Amy would come over, and they’d do something relaxing together, like enjoy a cheese platter and glasses of wine while they chatted or watched something with Humphrey Bogart.

  Amy was due to arrive any minute now, and Heather had decided to wait on the porch, where she could enjoy the nice weather. Not that Amy would think it particularly “nice.” She’d probably insist she was freezing.

  Sure enough, when Amy arrived, she shivered ostentatiously and said, “What are you doing out here? It’s cold!”

  Heather stood and preceded her back into the house. “I’ve got some Chardonnay and some Bogart all ready and waiting,” she said.

  “Sounds perfect,” Amy said. “I could do with a little wine to lubricate the ol’ synapses and hopefully get the creative juices flowing again.”

  “Having artist’s block?” Heather asked as she grabbed a corkscrew from her miscellaneous kitchen stuff drawer.

  “That, and it’s time to solve the mystery of Stan’s murder. If a crime isn’t solved within the first couple days, it’s not likely to be solved.”

  “It’s still early. There’s still time.”

  “Not according to CSI. And you know everything you see on TV is accurate.”

  Heather chuckled and poured generous amounts of wine into the glasses Amy had set on the counter. They carried their beverages into the living room, and then Heather returned to the kitchen for the cold cuts platter she’d prepared earlier.

  Amy reached out and snatched a piece of cheese as Heather passed her to set the tray down on the coffee table. “You have good taste in cheese,” she said.

  “It’s not hard when you just look at the trays in the deli section at Kroger and copy one.”

  “Okay, so let’s get those creative juices flowing,” Amy said, taking a sip of her wine. “We have to figure out who iced Stan.”

  ***

  But three hours later, they were no closer to figuring out who the killer was than they had been. Finally, frustrated and discouraged, Amy went home, and Heather got ready for bed.

  Slipping into a pair of flannel pajama pants and a long t-shirt, Heather washed her face, brushed her teeth, then let Dave outside for the last time. When he came back in, she locked the door behind him and headed down the hallway to her bedroom, with Dave following.

  As she snuggled under the covers, Dave turned in circles at the foot of the bed, looking for just the right place to settle in. Heather closed her eyes and tried to let the wine relax her to sleep. Maybe something would come to her in the morning.

  By the time she finally drifted into slumber, Dave had already been snoring his little, whiffling doggie snores for quite some time.

  Chapter 9

  It was 39 degrees out when Heather stepped onto her back porch the next morning. But there was no wind blowing, and the forecast called for a high temperature of 61, so she didn’t bother going back inside for a jacket. Jackets were too much trouble unless it was ridiculously cold or there was a cutting wind.

  She reached back inside, set her alarm, and then locked the door and jogged down the porch steps to her car. Today would be a busy day at Donut Delights, with kids and their parents stopping by for a donut and a carton of milk before school. That’s why she had decided to get there at seven instead of her usual 8:00 or 8:30.

  She hadn’t done much more than back out of her driveway when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, saw a number she didn’t recognize, and decided to pick up anyway. “Hello?”

  “Heather? This is Sheila Dombrowski.”

  “Hi, Sheila,” Heather said. Well, this was a surprise. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m at Stan’s shop, and I was going through some of his papers. I hadn’t gotten around to doing it until now. And I discovered something I think you might want to see.”

  “In Stan’s papers?”

  “Yes, in some of his financial papers. I don’t know if you knew this, but Stan always had a suspicion that Rob Gingrich—his accountant—was embezzling money.”

  “And you found proof?”

  “Not proof exactly. Probably not enough to stand up in court. But I thought you might want to—hang on just a minute. Someone’s here.”

  Heather waited, as she heard Sheila’s muffled yet somehow still rather imperious words, “What are you doing here? I didn’t ask you to—” Suddenly, there was the sound of the phone clattering to the hard floor. “Rob, what—what in the world are you—” There came the sound of something slamming against the wall, of Sheila’s scream.

  “Sheila?” Heather shouted. “Sheila?” But the call had ended.

  Pressing the gas pedal to the floor and fumbling to dial a different number, Heather waited for the phone to be answered. After what seemed like forever, a familiar voice said, “Hello?”

  “Ryan, I’m on my way to Stan’s shop!” Heather blurted. “Sheila called me from the office. Said she had papers to show me. And then Rob attacked her!”

  “Heather, calm down. What—”

  “There’s no time to calm down! I have to get there and stop Rob! So do you!”

  “Heather, wait!” Ryan shouted, his voice sounding frantic. “Heather, don’t!”

  She hung up, tossed the phone towards her purse in the other front seat, and poured on the speed. Up ahead, a traffic light turned red. She glanced both ways and blasted safely through, hoping that a police officer would see her and try to pull her over so that she could lead him to Stan’s shop. The more help, the better!

  But of course, since she wanted a police escort, she didn’t get one. She made it to the back of the shop, skidded more or less into a parking space, and burst through the back door. “Sheila!” she shouted.

  “Watch out! He has a gun!” came a faint shout from the direction of the office.

  Heather crossed the kitchen in three strides and yanked open the office door. And felt something crash into the side of her head. Staggering sideways, she fell to her knees, one hand reaching up to just above her ear, where the blow had fallen.

  “I must be losing my touch,” said a voice. “It only took one blow to knock Stan out.”

  Heather looked up, squinting through the blurriness and pain, to see that Sheila Dombrowski stood over her, holding a heavy wooden rolling pin. Sheila was the only other person in the room.

  “Where’s Rob?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Who cares?” Sheila answered. “He’s not here, and that’s all you need to know.”

  Sheila advanced on her, holding the rolling pin high above her head. Heather backed away and tried to stand.

  “One more blow should be all it’ll take,” Sheila said.

  “You killed Stan,” Heather said.

  “Yes, I killed Stan. Oh, I didn’t mean to. Not at first. But didn’t it work out nicely?”

  “Why…how…”

  “I came here that evening to try one more time to convince Stan to sell. Sell the
franchise and get out. Or I was leaving him.”

  “Why?” Heather asked, stalling for time. If only Ryan had taken her call seriously, and was even now on his way…

  “I was in love with Gary,” she said simply. “You didn’t really believe me when I told you I wasn’t having an affair, did you?”

  “Gary Larkin?”

  “Of course, Gary Larkin. Who else?” Sheila laughed, a dry, brittle sound. “I didn’t want to kill Stan. He was my husband, after all. I just wanted his money. So Gary and I could start a new life together.”

  “Doesn’t Gary have money of his own?”

  “Of course he does. You don’t think I would fall in love with a poor man, do you? Of course, he has money. But more is always better. Besides, I deserved Stan’s money, after everything I put up with from him.”

  “But why did you involve me? Why lure me up here under false pretenses?”

  “Oh, you already involved yourself, honey. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. This was none of your business.”

  As they were talking, Sheila had lowered the rolling pin. Heather launched herself forward as Sheila swung.

  Heather just had time to throw her arm up in front of her face before the blow connected, and a cracking sound came from the bone in her forearm.

  “Don’t try anything!” Sheila shrieked. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. But we’re going to do it!”

  “You’re going to kill me?”

  “Get up.” Sheila gestured with the rolling pin toward the kitchen. “Move.”

  Am I really going to be killed by a rolling pin? Heather wondered crazily as she forced herself to her feet, cradling her left arm against her body, and shuffled toward the door. Who ever heard of a rolling pin as a murder weapon?

  “Now get in the freezer,” Sheila commanded.

  “The freezer?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Sheila said in a sing-song voice. “You’ll only be cold for a little while. After about 5 minutes, the carbon dioxide will build up and make you very sleepy. It’s not the lack of oxygen, you know, that kills you. It’s too much carbon dioxide.”

  “Thank you for the science lesson,” Heather murmured. Where was Shepherd? Shouldn’t she be hearing sirens by now?

  “Open the freezer,” Sheila ordered.

  Heather took a risk to glance back at her. She wore another artfully tailored business suit, and her hair was once again coiffed into an elegant up-do. Did she consider this a special occasion to dress up for? Heather wondered.

  Reluctantly, she lifted the lid of the freezer, her mind whirling. If Ryan wasn’t going to rescue her, she would have to figure out a way to rescue herself. Because once she got in that freezer, it was all over. In five minutes, anyway. What could she do? What could she use for a weapon?

  “Get in!” Sheila screamed.

  “I can’t,” Heather said. “My arm.”

  “I don’t care about your arm! I want you in that freezer!”

  Heather glanced inside and saw three boxes of sausages lying flat against the bottom. If she could somehow grab one of those, maybe she could wield it against Sheila.

  Heather swung one leg over the edge of the freezer. Sheila stood poised with the rolling pin a few feet away. Slowly, Heather brought her other leg inside and began to crouch down, her good arm hanging down beside her, fingers reaching for the box.

  “Faster!” Sheila approached the freezer, rolling pin at the ready. Off in the distance, Heather thought she heard sirens. If she got into the freezer and Sheila closed the lid on her, would she last long enough for the police to get there?

  She couldn’t take the chance. As she crouched lower into the freezer, her fingers closed around the heavy box. “Just—I can’t fit,” Heather protested.

  With a growl, Sheila came closer and reached for the open lid of the freezer.

  In one motion, Heather gripped the box tighter than she’d ever gripped anything before and rose to her feet, swinging her arm up and out toward Sheila.

  The box made contact with Sheila’s face. Sheila cried out and staggered backward, dropping the rolling pin as the box of frozen sausages skittered across the floor and came to rest against the leg of the prep counter.

  Heather leaped from the freezer and reached for the rolling pin. But Sheila was faster. She grabbed it, swung it over her head, and gave a banshee-like shriek as she charged toward Heather.

  Bang!

  Heather dodged Sheila’s blow, and both women spun toward the back door of the shop as it flew open. Ryan stood in the doorway, his gun pointed at the middle of Sheila’s chest.

  “Drop it!” he shouted. “Drop your weapon!”

  For a long, terrible moment, Heather was afraid that Sheila was going to charge him, too, and that he would shoot her.

  “Drop it, or I’ll shoot!”

  Then, suddenly, the rolling pin clattered to the floor, and Sheila’s hands went up. A haughty smile twisted her lips. “So you finally figured it out.”

  “Heather, are you okay?” Ryan asked, never once taking his eyes off Sheila.

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  In seconds, it was all over. Heather stood leaning against the freezer and shivering as she watched Ryan order Sheila to turn her back to him and place her hands over her face. “Now back up towards me,” he commanded, and she backed up a few steps. “Stop,” he said. “Hands behind your back.”

  The smile never left Sheila’s face as she placed her hands behind her back and Ryan snapped handcuffs on her. Only when the sirens stopped did Heather realize more officers had arrived. Again, the door burst open, and two uniformed officers entered, their guns drawn.

  “Scene’s secure,” Ryan said, and they holstered their weapons. “Can you take this one outside? I need to talk to the victim.”

  The officer gripped Sheila’s arm and led her out as Ryan finally, mercifully came towards her. “You’re not okay,” he said, looking into her eyes. “What happened to your arm?”

  Heather didn’t know if her vision was blurred from the blow to her head or the tears that had sprung to her eyes. Then, suddenly, she was crying, too, and Ryan carefully embraced her, avoiding her injured arm.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. Everything’s okay.”

  Chapter 10

  “Okay, now that’s weird,” Amy said, leaning forward to snatch another grape from the tray. “She just kept smiling all the while she was being arrested and didn’t say a word?”

  “Until she got put in the back of the patrol car,” Ryan said. “I have it on good authority that she resisted going in, and that she then tried to kick out the windows. All the while using distinctly un-ladylike language.”

  “Knows some four-letter words, does she?” Amy said.

  “Plenty, apparently. I think even the patrol officers learned some new words.”

  “Impressive,” Amy said.

  “Actually, ‘impressive’ was when you showed up at just the right time,” Heather piped up from where she lay on the couch, propped up by pillows. The ER doc had told her that she had a mild concussion and only agreed to let her go home if she promised to rest.

  “I tried to tell you not to go,” Ryan said. “When you hung up on me…” he shrugged and let the sentence trail away.

  “You tried to stop her?” Amy asked.

  “Yes, he did,” Heather confirmed.

  “And have you figured out why?” Ryan asked.

  “I assume because you didn’t want me to get into any danger. You thought Rob was there, and you didn’t want Rob to hurt me.”

  “I didn’t want Sheila to hurt you,” he corrected her.

  “Wait, what?” The pain meds were making it hard for her to think clearly. Or quickly.

  “I didn’t want Sheila to hurt you,” he repeated.

  Even with the repetition, it took a moment for his words to sink in. “You mean you knew Rob wasn’t there? You knew Sheila lied to lure me there?” She paused
as another thought struck. “Did you know Sheila had killed Stan?”

  “I knew. I just couldn’t prove it.”

  “So that was whom you were referring to when you said you suspected somebody.”

  He nodded.

  “Why did you suspect her?”

  “Because the odds were that this murder had been committed by a woman. And she was the only female suspect.”

  “What do you mean, the odds were that a woman committed the murder?” Amy asked, wrinkling her nose. “What odds?”