Chocolate Tiramisu Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 9

by Susan Gillard

  “And who would? I had room service last night. It was delicious,” Heather said, then spooned batter into the donut tray.

  Chef Dante was friendly as could be, but he’d clearly hated Gino. Heather’s sleuthin’ sense tingled.

  “I wonder who killed him,” she said, watching the chef out of the corner of her eye.

  Dante didn’t react, except to shrug. “It could be anyone. No one liked him. Not even his own daughter, Gia. He thought much of himself. Big head.” He tapped the side of his rather large head.

  “I see,” Heather replied. Then took the donuts over to the oven and slipped them inside. She closed up and turned back to the chef. “I suppose that’s what happens when you’re a famous actor.”

  “Bah!” Dante exclaimed, and his entire gut wiggled. “He wasn’t that good. Verdi was always better than him. This is why they broke it off. Gino Ginelli was jealous of her.”

  A fire flared in one of the pans on the other side of the room, and a young, sweaty chef jumped back from it with a yelp.

  “Oi!” Chef Dante yelled. “Idiota!” He stomped off towards the flames and the chef, who flapped his hands at the pan in an ill attempt to put out the fire.

  Heather shook her head and got out another bowl for the creamy topping.

  She’d learned two things from the conversation. Number one, Chef Dante had despised Gino Ginelli – and for a good reason, she would’ve been tempted to throw a donut at a customer if they half of it, then complained and ate an entirely new one, then complained some more.

  And the second, well, that Gino Ginelli had a daughter and an ex-girlfriend who were both angry with him.

  That was two new leads.

  Heather smirked. She wasn’t used to this many leads this early on in the investigation. Hopefully, it was a good sign.

  Usually, she had to sniff around for scraps and probe skirting boards for signs of cigarette burns.

  “Gia Ginelli,” she mumbled, “and Verdi Salsa.”

  Heather brought out the cream and walked to the coffee machine in the corner to brew some espresso.

  “Too many leads, too little time,” Heather said, and pressed a few buttons. The coffee machine beeped a protest.

  Chef Dante hurried over to her. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said, then pressed his chubby digits against the buttons, working them like a master magician. A few seconds later, the machine bubbled and brewed.

  “Thanks,” Heather said, then paused and grabbed the Chef’s arm. “Dante, you wouldn’t perhaps know where I can find Gia, would you?”

  The fat guy sniffed and wrenched his arm from her grip. “No.” Then he turned and strode off, his back stiff.

  What was that about?

  Chapter 4

  Heather walked down the hall on the second floor of the hotel, admiring the décor while balancing a silver platter of donuts in her right hand. The Coffee-Glazed Tiramisu donuts were perfection, even if she did say so herself, and they were just the thing to cheer Ryan up.

  He was probably still upstairs watching reruns of old Italian cop shows. He couldn’t understand a word of the language, but as long as there was a bit of mystery, he enjoyed it.

  “Pretty lady,” a small voice whispered to her.

  Heather jumped, and the donuts hopped on the platter. “Whoa,” she said, balancing them again. She stopped dead and glanced around, studying the Venetian wall sconces and the rich, walnut boarding.

  A door creaked open nearby, and a gnarled hand extended from the depths. “Come here, pretty lady.”

  Heather looked around, then pointed at her chest. “Me?”

  “Yes, come to me,” the woman said, still hidden by the shadows.

  “As much fun as that sounds,” Heather replied, “I think I’m going to opt for sanity and safety on this occasion.”

  The old woman – she had to be judging by the liver spots and wrinkles on the back of that hand – hissed her disapproval. She creaked the door open further, revealing the stacks of polish, brooms, mops and buckets behind her.

  She stepped out into the hall, wringing her hands. She was old, older than Heather’s dear friend Eva, but her bright blue eyes glistened with presence.

  She had cobweb white hair tied into a knot atop her head. She wore neat white slacks and a janitorial apron on top of her pressed shirt. It had the logo of the Hotel Venezia on the breast.

  “Oh,” Heather said, “and hello to you.” She pressed her lips together. “Would you like a donut?”

  The old lady grimaced and shook her head. “No, no donut for me. I hear things, pretty lady.”

  “Please, call me Heather. Seriously. Heather is just fine.” Another ‘pretty lady’, and this pretty lady’s skin might crawl clean off her body from the sheer creepiness of this encounter.

  “Heather,” the woman said, rolling the ‘r’ on the end. “I hear many things in the hotel. These ears have walls.”

  “Uh, pardon me?”

  “The walls! They have ears. Do you not have ears of your own? Since you seem not to understand what I say.” The woman flapped her wrinkled hands at her, and Heather was reminded of an oversized bat.

  “Can I help you with something, uh …?”

  “Mistico,” she said, “my name is Mistico.”

  “That’s pretty fitting actually. What can I help you with, Mistico?” Heather glanced up and down the hall, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  “It is not how you can help me, but how I can help you,” Mistico replied. “I work in this hotel for many, many years and I learn the tricks. The secret places to hide and listen.”

  “Why would you want to hide and listen?”

  Mistico shrugged. “Sometimes you hide from the boss. Other times you want a moment of quiet between cleaning toilets.”

  Heather nodded. That was a reasonable explanation.

  “I hear you look for answers about Gino Ginelli,” Mistico said, twiddling her fingers.

  “Yes, I am, actually.” Heather moved closer to the strange custodian, at last. “What do you know about that particular situation?”

  A door slammed in the distance and they both jumped and checked both ways. Heather rearranged the donuts again and clicked her tongue. A few of them had flopped around, and their creamy toppings had collided.

  “I hear a fight the night before the murder. Before you meet the famous Gino Ginelli for the very first time.” Mistico huddled closer to Heather, close enough that Heather could pick up the scent of detergent.

  “Who did Gino fight with?”

  “The young lady of his, the daughter. Her name is Gia Ginelli. She fight with the father about money or some such thing. You must find this yourself.” Mistico hissed. “I could not hear it all. My walls are getting old.”

  “You mean your ears,” Heather said, gently.

  “Yes, this is what I said.” Mistico pursed her wrinkly old lips and shuffled backward. “This is all I want for to tell you.”

  “But wait, why are you helping me?” Heather asked. That didn’t make sense. Why hadn’t the strange old lady gone to the police instead of coming to her?

  “Gino Ginelli was bad man. Very bad man. Rude and mean. And very messy. Each day I must clean his piggy mess off the floors in his room and he never say thank you. Once he even call me stupid and ugly. I no like this man.”

  “So, why do you want to see his murderer brought to justice, then?” Heather asked. A bit of cream flopped off the top of one of the donuts, and she sighed.

  “Just because he is pig doesn’t mean he deserve to die. Murderer is worse than rude. He is murderer.”

  Heather couldn’t argue with that logic. “Thank you, Mistico,” she said, her palm sweaty against the underside of the platter, “please let me know if you hear anything else of interest.”

  Mistico nodded, then turned to depart. “Stay safe, pretty lady,” she said, hurrying off down the hall.

  “It’s Heather,” she called after her.

  But Mistico was
already out of earshot, off to listen in on another conversation or perhaps clean a toilet. Either job sounded unpleasant.

  She couldn’t imagine what kind of information Mistico might be privy to. Horrible things, no doubt.

  Heather shuddered and another dollop of cream slid off a donut. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she whispered. She set off down the hall towards their suite, rolling her eyes at herself for all the superstition.

  Ryan was still on the sofa, watching shows when she entered.

  “I’ve brought treats,” Heather called out.

  He perked up just the same as Dave would’ve at the mention of donuts.

  “Oh boy, just what I needed.” Ryan said, hurrying over and accepting one of the creamier donuts from her. He munched on it and groaned. “My wife is a genius.”

  “Your wife also just got a lot of interesting information.”

  Ryan gestured with his half-eaten donut. “Do tell.”

  Chapter 5

  The city was alive with lights that night. Beautiful buildings sailed by, and Heather and Ryan laid back in their Gondola, clinging to each other to keep from embracing the slight chilliness of the Venetian night breeze.

  “Stars overhead, a full moon, and the gentle sound of water lapping the side of the boat. Could there be anything better?” Heather asked.

  “How about another of your donuts?” Ryan countered.

  “You’re a slave driver, you.” It was a joke, of course. She loved making her donuts, almost as much as she loved spending time with her husband. Okay, she loved her husband more, but time spent baking donuts was never work or time wasted.

  “What’s on your mind tonight?” Ryan asked, stroking the hair off her forehead.

  It was strange to express affection in front of their surly and heavy-browed gondolier, but she relished it regardless.

  Working on solving murders in her spare time had given Heather a keen appreciation for life.

  “I was just thinking about what Mistico said.”

  Ryan snorted loudly. The gondolier clicked his tongue in derision.

  “Sorry, honey, but I don’t think you can take that kind of talk, seriously. I mean, just listen to her name. That alone should be warning enough that whatever she tells you is probably going to be a big old lie.”

  “Hey, ease up. I googled that name. It’s legitimately Italian.”

  “Uh huh? And what does her name mean?”

  “Mystic,” Heather muttered.

  Ryan snorted again, louder this time.

  The gondolier slapped the paddle against the side of the gondola, and the entire thing wobbled slightly.

  “Is there a problem?” Ryan asked, turning to look up at the swarthy fellow.

  “No,” the guy replied, but he wore an expression like he’d been slapped in the face with a wet fish.

  Ryan opened his mouth to argue, but Heather did her new and controlling elbow nudge. Her husband quieted down with a few grumbles.

  Another thought had occurred to Heather: if Gino Ginelli had been conked on the head and shoved into a canal, sure someone would’ve seen? A gondolier perhaps?

  “Say, uh, gondolier guy?” Heather asked.

  The gondolier guy sniffed. “Si?”

  “What time do these rides through Venice stop? At night, I mean. When do you stop giving the Gondola rides?” She asked it as politely as she could because clearly this guy has some issue or the other.

  The gondolier flick flacked his black and white striped shirt with his two forefingers. “They don’t close. Always open.”

  “And you’re the guy who does the rides past the Hotel Venezia, right?”

  “Many others do,” the gondolier replied, and sniffed for the second time.

  “Oh,” Heather said. “You didn’t by chance hear about the death of –”

  The gondola stopped right outside the Hotel Venezia and the gondolier smirked. “Ride is over now. Good evening.”

  “Wow,” Heather whispered. There was no end to the rudeness in Italy. France had been bad enough, but she’d expected more from Venice.

  “Come on, babe, let’s get outta here.” Ryan helped her out of the Gondola and didn’t tip the gondolier. They shuffled a few steps towards the entrance of the hotel, but that was as far as they made it.

  “Good day to you,” a man said, stepping from the shadows. He wore a tailored suit and a bow tie. “I couldn’t help overhearing your talk with the gondolier. I apologize for his rudeness.”

  “Uh, do you run the tours around here?” Heather asked. Italy had brought a lot of ‘uh’ to her lips. She was constantly surprised by the people, the sights and the sounds in Venice.

  “No,” the man said, smoothly in a fake American accent, and checked his bow tie was on straight, “indeed I do not.”

  “Then with all due respect, sir, what do you want?” Ryan asked.

  Her husband, always straight to the point. They’d had a long enough day with the questioning, the Mistico occurrence and now the ruined cruise the Venetian canals.

  The man extended his hand to Ryan. “I am Leonardo Digabbrio.”

  “Ryan Shepherd,” her husband replied. They shook on it.

  “Wait a second,” Heather said, holding her finger aloft. “I know who you are. You’re the one who writes all the tabloids here. Chef Dante was reading me one of your pieces today, about Verdi Salsa and her break up with Gino.”

  Ryan shook his head and mumbled something about strange Italian names.

  “That is correct. A very astute discovery, si. I am The Gab. The famed paparazzo. You may call me Leo, or Gab, or whatever you like.”

  “All right,” Heather said, “I’ll bite. But only because you’re probably the most polite person we’ve met on our entire honeymoon. How can we help, Leo?” She couldn’t bring herself to call him the Gab or Gab. It was way too cheesy.

  Leo brought out an electronic cigarette and sucked on it. He puffed a cloud of cherry-scented smoke out above his head. “I would like to talk to you about the murder of Gino Ginelli. My sources tell me that you may have some knowledge of what happened to him.”

  “No comment,” Ryan and Heather said, in unison. They held hands and squeezed each other at the same moment.

  “I think I can make it worth your time to talk to me,” Leo said, still in his American accent. “I have information that I know would interest you, Heather Shepherd.”

  She didn’t bother asking how he knew her name. She’d learned her lesson from Bear Trapp the last time around. If a paparazzo wanted to find out something, they’d sniff and dig until they got it.

  Heather drew in a breath. “All that we know is what we experienced. Gino bumped into me in the lobby of the hotel while we were checking in. He was very rude and complained about the water that spilled on his Armani suit. Then he left. That’s all that happened.”

  “I see,” Leo replied, his cogs whirring behind those sharp eyes.

  “Now, what do you have to tell me?” Heather asked.

  Leo tapped the side of his aquiline nose. “I have it on the best authority that Gino Ginelli was having an affair. This is the reason he and Verdi Salsa broke up the night before the premiere.”

  And with that Leo rushed off into the night, doubtlessly to cook up some fake plot which revolved around an innocent – on Heather’s part at least – run-in at the Hotel Venezia.

  “I think that was a bad idea, love,” Ryan said, squeezing her hand again.

  “You might be right,” Heather replied, worry burning a hole in the bottom of her belly.

  Chapter 6

  Heather hadn’t been able to sleep a wink that night. Ryan had fallen right into bed after their romantic candlelit dinner, however, and snored enough for a ship full of sailors.

  So, Heather had slipped out of bed, put on her new, fluffy pink slippers and traipsed down the hall and to the elevator.

  She had the worst case of donut cravings imaginable to man, but that was probably because Ryan had devoured most of t
he Coffee-Glazed Tiramisu Donuts and left her one as consolation. The least creamy one.

  She couldn’t blame him. He was a cop after all.

  Heather chuckled and strolled towards the kitchen. That joke never got old to her.

  She pushed the door open and peered inside, but it was quiet as the grave. Even the kitchen closed up when it got late enough.

  “Strange that no one locked it, though.” She clicked on the lights and walked to the Heather and donut designated section of the room.

  She cracked her knuckles, shook her head at herself for being unladylike or whatever her mother had called it as a kid, and bent to get a bowl out from under the counter.

  Heather froze.

  What was that?

  Humming?

  That was someone humming a tune. It sounded alot like Fleetwood Mac?

  “Hello,” Heather called out, “is there someone in here?”

  A bang and a clatter from the far end of the kitchen. Heather’s throat closed up with fear, but she shook it off. Why would a murderer come to the kitchen in the middle of the night? For heaven’s sake, the murder had happened outside in the street.

  “Get yourself together, woman,” she said. A gentle scolding always did the trick for her. Got her head back in the right space.

  Heather strode through the kitchen and towards the source of the noise, which came from a small door at the very back.

  “Hello? Is there someone back here?”

  The humming stopped, and a man called back, “Why yes, there is.”

  The door opened enough to allow Chef Dante to slip out. He snapped it closed behind him before she could get a glimpse of what was inside.

  “Chef Dante,” she said, with a smile. “I didn’t expect anyone to be in here so late.”

  “Yes, I like to go over the menu at this time, get a few snacks before I go to bed. You know how it is,” he said, with a wink. He patted his huge gut, then gesture to her. “What about you?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Heather replied. “And that means its donut baking time. Care to join?” This would give her the perfect opportunity to pick the Chef’s brain, and find out what was behind that plain, wooden door.