Goodbye Cruller World

by Ginger Bolton

  “I hope so, too, for its sake. Get Westhill in here so he can witness your signature.”

  I sent a warning glare up toward Dep. Hunched over her front paws with her pupils enlarged as if she were contemplating all sorts of diabolical activities, she stared down at Passenmath.

  I hurried to the kitchen.

  Tom followed me to the office and witnessed my signature.

  “You can go now,” Yvonne Passenmath told me. “I’ve got questions for Mr. Westhill.”

  Mr. Westhill. People usually called him Chief Westhill or, if they knew him well like I did, by his first name.

  Frowning, I left the office and closed the door behind me.

  Chapter 14

  Tom had tidied the kitchen. In the dining room, I turned chairs upside down on tables. If Alec, Brent, or Tom had been questioning me and I had hesitated like I had around Passenmath just now, Alec, Brent, or Tom would have quietly waited to hear what I wanted to say. They would not have dismissed me as Passenmath had.

  I wasn’t about to run into the office to tell her to watch witnesses for cues that they might have more to say, however. I was itching to leave so I could shop for ingredients for Brent’s and my dinner, but I couldn’t go until I collected Dep, and she was in the office.

  I glanced through the office window. A red plastic ball with a jingly bell inside it rolled off the catwalk, missed Passenmath by inches, and bounced out of sight, probably ending up underneath the desk.

  Maybe flying kitty toys prevented Passenmath from staying. She returned to the dining room. Tom followed her and carefully shut the office door. Passenmath looked annoyed. Tom’s annoyance appeared to be tempered with amusement. Passenmath refused his offer of donuts, and he let her out the front.

  I told Tom, “She’s looking for evidence against Jenn.”

  “The spouse. That’s common.”

  “And Passenmath likes the easy path to a quick arrest.”

  “Lucky thing for the bride that Fyne’s on the case,” he said. “He’ll take a broader view. Did she ask you about the bag they found in your wastebasket at the reception?”

  “No. What bag?”

  “Someone tossed a plastic sandwich bag into your wastebasket. There were grains of white arsenic inside it. I told her there was no way you had taken a bag of arsenic to the reception along with our donuts.”

  I grinned. “Thanks, Tom, but she knows that you and I would stand up for each other.”

  Tom folded his arms and frowned toward our front walk, where we’d last seen Yvonne Passenmath. “They found no arsenic in our Deputy Donut police car or in here, though by the time they searched this place, the Jolly Cops could have inadvertently cleaned it up.”

  “And they didn’t find any in my clothes. I don’t know about the jacket that I had to leave there, on the floor underneath the table. And I hope she doesn’t get a search warrant for my house. Not that she’d find arsenic, but she’d say that was because I’d had time to discard it.”

  “I’m sure that the killer, whoever it was, did his or her best to get rid of any traces of arsenic, possibly before taking a plastic bag of it to the lodge Saturday night. Are we done here for the night?”

  “Almost.” I e-mailed a photo of Jenn and Roger’s donut wall to the address on Yvonne Passenmath’s business card and then boxed half a dozen donuts. Tom, Dep, and I went out the back and locked up. Waving, Tom drove away.

  Dep and I walked home. In the living room, I let her out of her halter. She scampered toward the back of the house. I followed, washed her dishes, refilled them, and put a couple of baking potatoes into one of the ovens.

  Heading toward the front door, I called out to Dep, “See you later!” She didn’t pause her energetic grooming of one hind leg.

  I drove my own car, a fast but safe one like the sports cars that Alec had driven, to a block of specialty food stores near Fallingbrook’s central square where I quickly purchased what I needed for dinner.

  Back at home, I sliced a baguette most of the way through, slathered garlic butter on it, wrapped it in foil, and put it in the other oven. I cut broccoli, chopped veggies for salad, and whisked balsamic vinegar, extra-extra-virgin olive oil, and salt and pepper together for dressing.

  The doorbell rang. Dep raced to the living room and waited, nose against the door.

  Brent always stood far enough back for me to see him through the peephole. Either he was still on duty or he’d come straight from work. He was wearing gray slacks, a pale blue shirt, a tweed blazer, and a dark blue tie.

  Smiling, I opened the door. “Come in.”

  He handed me a bottle of Merlot. Thanking him, I closed the door. Dep meowed. He picked her up. “Thanks for calling today, Em. Sorry I couldn’t talk.” He looked tired.

  “It’s okay. I knew you’d be busy. So . . . let me guess. Yvonne Passenmath was holding the meeting?”

  He opened his eyes wide in pretend amazement. “You detected that from my one-syllable comments?”

  I laughed. “They were very expressive. Besides, Yvonne showed up at Deputy Donut after work.”

  Brent frowned. “I told her that we tested your shop, your car, and your clothing and found no arsenic on them, and she read the forensics report, besides. I hope she’s not focusing on your shop having been cleaned before we sealed its doors early Sunday morning.”

  “She’d probably like to decide that Tom and I are responsible for Roger’s death, but she said she visited Deputy Donut for me to sign the statement I gave you.”

  “I could have brought it to you.”

  “She had other questions for me, about who decided which donuts went where. Apparently, she’s searching for evidence against Jenn. But she hasn’t ruled me out.” I described thinking aloud to Yvonne Passenmath about how the killer might have managed to single out Roger. “Yvonne seemed to take it as a confession.”

  “She’s not the best one at brainstorming theories.”

  “I should brainstorm my theories only with you.”

  “As long as you don’t act on any of your theories.”

  When Alec was alive, we never ate in the dining room when Brent visited except when he brought a date. Now I wanted to keep my relationship with Brent casual, so I set places for us at the kitchen island, and we started on the Merlot and munched crackers covered in Gorgonzola.

  Brent got out his notebook. “I ran the license number you gave me. The car belongs to Vanessa Legghaupt. Does that name ring a bell?”

  “No, and although I paid attention, neither of the two women mentioned the other one by name. It was a little odd, actually, the way they only referred to each other as ‘she.’ ”

  I gave him a plate with two thick steaks on it, and the three of us, Dep leading the way, went outside to the barbecue. While Dep stayed with Brent and the steaks, I returned to the kitchen, microwaved the broccoli until it was just tender, drizzled it with butter and fresh lemon juice, dressed the salad, put the hot potatoes on plates, cut them open, and garnished them with sour cream and chopped chives.

  With Dep meowing behind him, Brent brought the steaks inside. As always, he’d grilled them with neat crisscrosses. We sat beside each other at the kitchen island and cut into the steaks. They were perfect, medium-rare, the way we both liked them.

  I asked Brent if he had wanted me to tell Yvonne Passenmath about the Happy Hopers’ visit to Deputy Donut.

  “Did you?”

  “No. She didn’t ask.”

  “That’s not surprising. I didn’t tell her they’d been at your shop.”

  “She seems to like to control the direction of the conversation. Good detectives don’t do that.”

  “Mmp.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Grinning, he cut off another bite of steak.

  I told him everything that Vanessa Legghaupt and her friend had said to me that afternoon.

  He summarized, “So, this Vanessa Legghaupt claims that Roger Banchen ruined or tried to ruin both her business and h
er reputation, and that he told people she’d been imprisoned in Utah.”

  “Can you check to see if she has a criminal record?”

  “I did. She doesn’t, but I remembered her name from a case here in Fallingbrook a year and a half ago. She was questioned about a skirmish over a shopping cart in the supermarket parking lot, but witnesses came forward saying that the other woman had attacked Legghaupt, and that Legghaupt had willingly relinquished the shopping cart without laying a finger on the other woman. Legghaupt wasn’t charged. The other woman was.”

  “So, Roger made up that she’d been in prison? That should be enough to anger anyone. And her friend said that she, the friend, not Vanessa, paid Roger double what she’d been paying Vanessa, and then all that Roger did, as she put it, was ‘snarl and sneer’ at her. Both Vanessa and her friend have grudges. Are you going to go talk to them now? I mean, after dessert?”

  “I’ll talk to them in the morning. I have a list of the registrants at the Happy Hopers Conference, but now I know where to start, with this life coach. And I’ll make certain to mention that I’m talking to all of the conference attendees. They shouldn’t be able to connect my questions to you.”

  I hadn’t worried about it. Brent was always circumspect. Besides, if the two women talked as much as they had around me, he would barely have to ask anything. However, if one or both of them had killed Roger, they might clam up around a detective. I added, “I couldn’t figure out whether or not they knew he was dead, and I was careful not to ask.”

  “Word seems to have gotten around.”

  “So, if someone is avoiding talking about it, they might be pretending they don’t know, and you might view them with suspicion?”

  He gave me a sly grin. “At this point, we suspect everyone.”

  “I know, including me.” With my own sly grin, I asked, “Do you mind donuts for dessert?”

  He made a pretend and very exaggerated scowl. “Of course not.”

  I glanced toward the coffeemaker. “Coffee?”

  “Not tonight, thanks. With Yvonne on the case, I don’t have to be on duty all night. I can go home and catch at least a few hours of sleep.”

  Someone pounded on the front door.

  Chapter 15

  Brent stood up and asked quietly, “Are you expecting anyone?”

  “No, but Yvonne Passenmath knocked like that this evening at Deputy Donut.”

  Brent started out of the kitchen. “I’ll get the door.”

  Dep and I followed him through the dining room. I stopped at the edge of the living room. Tail straight up, Dep trotted behind Brent.

  He peered through the peephole, turned around, gave me a grim nod, and opened the door.

  Yvonne Passenmath strode in. “What are you doing here?” she asked Brent. “Business or pleasure?”

  Ears back, Dep scooted away, toward the kitchen and sunroom.

  Brent shut the door. “I’m off duty, but Emily had some information that I was about to bring you.”

  “What information?” Why did Passenmath think she had to bark at Brent?

  “She gave me the license number of one of the two women who were hanging around Little Lake Lodge Saturday night.”

  “They were attending a conference, and we already have the list of attendees. You got anything else?” Passenmath had barely moved away from the front door, effectively blockading Brent from coming back into the living room. I hung back in the dining room.

  “The woman’s ID,” Brent answered.

  “Bring it to work in the morning. You were going to question all of the conference attendees, weren’t you?”

  “I’ll start with that woman.”

  “If you have time. We have a lot of ground to cover. Meanwhile, I’ve got questions for Ms. Westhill.”

  Brent edged around Passenmath, placing himself between her and me. “Need an attorney, Emily?”

  Now that I was part of the conversation, I took a few steps into the living room. I smiled, not very naturally. “No. I want this murderer to be caught.” If Yvonne Passenmath asked me something I didn’t want to answer, I supposed I would have to dredge up a lawyer. The only one I knew was the woman who had helped with the purchase of this house and of Deputy Donut. Her specialty was real estate.

  Yvonne stared at Brent as if hoping he’d leave.

  “I’d like to hear her answers, Yvonne, if you don’t mind.” He said it politely.

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  I gestured toward the couch, its matching armchair, and the wing chair. “Come in.”

  Passenmath sat in the armchair and pulled a notebook out of a sagging jacket pocket.

  Brent sat in the wing chair and removed a notebook from his shirt pocket.

  Wondering how Passenmath would react if I also opened a notebook, I plunked myself into the middle of the couch.

  Passenmath gave me the old fisheye. “We picked up a wastebasket at the site, a metal one, kind of purplish. Do you know anything about it?”

  “If it’s a step-on can trimmed in white lace and gold ribbons, it’s mine. I took it there. It should have my fingerprints all over it, and you should be able to find my prints from when I worked at 911. They were still on file during last year’s murder investigation.”

  “Can you tell me why that trash can was full of plastic gloves?” Pointing her pen at me, she looked about to shout, Gotcha!

  Sitting up straight on that comfy couch seemed all wrong, but I did my best to appear professional and helpful. And innocent. “I took an entire box of them to the reception. The investigators probably have the box containing the ones I didn’t use. It’s normal food-handling procedure. We wear sterile gloves when we’re touching food. We throw them out and then put on a new pair when we need to touch food again.”

  Like a trial attorney trying to trip up a witness, she demanded, “How many pairs were in that wastebasket?”

  “I didn’t count, but probably at least a dozen. Subtract the number that are still in the box from the number it was supposed to contain before I opened it, and that’s how many should be in the wastebasket.”

  Passenmath glared.

  Oops. I was getting bratty. Careful not to look at Brent, who was probably trying not to smile, I added seriously, “Tom said you also found a plastic bag in that wastebasket, and the bag had arsenic in it.”

  Scowling did not improve her appearance. “He had no business telling you that.”

  “Maybe it’s good that he did, so I can tell you directly.” I raised my chin and gazed right into her eyes. “I did not throw any plastic bags into that can.”

  Brent shifted in the wing chair, but he didn’t say anything.

  Passenmath flapped her hand as if trying to shoo a pesky mosquito. “We have no way of proving that. Any fingerprints on that bag were wiped off.”

  That gave me an idea. I glanced toward Brent. He was wearing his impenetrable poker face. I turned back to Passenmath. “Can you get prints from the insides of plastic gloves? You should be able to get most of a handprint.”

  She moved her head slightly as if she wanted to shake it, but she pinched her lips together instead.

  “We can check,” Brent said.

  I leaned forward. “Because most of the handprints inside those gloves should be mine, but at least one glove might have another handprint inside it.”

  Brent asked me, “Usually, when you remove those gloves, do they end up right side out?”

  Picturing myself stripping off gloves, I realized my mistake. “No, actually. It’s fastest, most hygienic, and least messy and sticky to turn them inside out as I take them off. But probably not all the way inside out. Most of them end up in sort of a ball.”

  He nodded. “That’s the way we do it, too. We don’t let the possibly contaminated surface of a glove come into contact with our skin.”

  I added, “In any case, handprints inside gloves probably get smeared.”

  Passenmath seemed to make no attempt to hide her disl
ike of both Brent and me. “Forensics will look into prints everywhere on those gloves, and on everything else.”

  “Hold up your hand, Emily,” Brent said, “palm toward us.”

  “Hands up,” I joked, but I showed them my palms.

  “Her hands are small for an adult,” Brent pointed out. “You can put your hands down now, Emily.” He said it sternly, but there was a twinkle in those gray eyes.

  Like the well-mannered lady I pretended to be, I folded my hands in my lap and said politely, “As I mentioned this afternoon, Detective Passenmath, whoever dipped a cruller or crullers into arsenic and left a saucer of it underneath my hat might have come into the banquet hall by the back door, the one leading to the service corridor, and I suspect that he or she must have also left that way. Before I started dancing, that door was shut. After Roger fell, but before I knew about the white powder, that door was open. I went out into the corridor to see if anyone was there. One meeting room smelled strongly of the fragrance that the two women from the conference were wearing, so your search for disposable gloves with handprints other than mine should take you to the overflowing wastebasket inside that meeting room, near the door to the service corridor.”

  Passenmath informed me, “All of the trash from every waste container in the lodge was picked up for analysis.”

  “If it’s all been tossed into one big bin, look carefully at anything near a lot of packaging materials from things like souvenirs or, as one of the women described them, ‘cheap gewgaws.’ And at anything that smells like potpourri.”

  She printed in her notebook and then shoved it into her jacket pocket. “We don’t toss evidence into bins. It’s all bagged and labeled, complete with location.”

  “Sorry, I should know that.” Wrong thing to say. Reminding Passenmath that I’d been married to the detective she’d wanted for herself was probably not a good idea. And it probably didn’t help that she’d found Brent visiting me, and it wasn’t the first time. She’d run into him at my place just over a year before when she was in Fallingbrook investigating a different case. Obviously, someone needed to change the subject. I asked, “Would either of you like a donut?”