Chocolate Crunch Murder

by Gillard, Susan

  A man draped in a floor-length coat, stood at the mouth of the alley. He twitched toward the street, then backed off again.

  Heather slowed and glanced at him. She raised a hand in greeting. He didn’t wave back.

  “Hello,” Heather called. “How are you? Lovely evening, isn’t it?” Shoot, it was technically afternoon.

  The shifty guy didn’t answer her.

  “Say, you don’t have the time do you?” She tucked her arm behind her back and hid her watch.

  The man shook his shaggy head. Long strings of hair hung around his shoulders. His beard brushed the top button of his coat.

  At least he’d responded.

  “I’m Heather. What’s your name?”

  “Hammond,” he replied, in a voice drier than sandpaper.

  “Nice to meet you, Hammond. I like that name. So you don’t have the time? My friends and I have an appointment tonight. A family gathering, actually, and we’d hate to be late.”

  Hammond’s shoulders relaxed, the tension leaked from his body. “Nope. Not got the time. Thank you.” He shuffled back a step, into the shadow of the alleyway.

  “Hey, did you hear about the owner of this place?” Heather pointed at the burger bar.

  But mystery man Hammond didn’t want to talk anymore. He backed off, one step, two steps, the turned and fled into the darkness.

  “Hey!” Heather called out. “Hey, I just wanted to…” She trailed off. What was the point? He was gone, already.

  “Get what you wanted?” Amy jogged up beside her.

  Lilly’s gaze blazed intrigue and admiration.

  “No, I didn’t. And it’s time we get Lilly back to the Foster Folks.”

  Lilly groaned for the second time, and Dave whined in solidarity.

  Still, Heather’s brain whirred with possibilities. She looked up at the restaurant, and shock jolted her spine straight. A light shone from an upstairs window. The grandma, of course.

  Heather wasn’t out of leads yet.

  Chapter 7

  Heather squished back in the comfy booth in Dos Chicos and stared at the portraits hanging on the far wall. Each time she’d come to her favorite Mexican restaurant she’d been more focused on the food and mysteries than anything else.

  She narrowed her eyes at the décor.

  “It’s George Clooney,” the waitress said. He readjusted his nametag – which read ‘Seth’ – and leveled a grin at her. “The one next to that is Jonah Hill. And we’ve had Charlize Theron in here too.”

  “You’re kidding,” Heather replied. “How come I’ve never heard anything about this before?”

  “We’re the best kept secret in the state. The celebs come in every now and again, but we seat them in the private section. They don’t like too much attention. You know how it is,” Seth replied.

  Heather shook her head, then slid the plain silver bracelet up her arm.

  “Can I get you another soda?”

  “I think I’ll treat myself to a margarita this time,” Heather replied, then glanced at her watch.

  Ryan was late. They’d agreed to meet at Dos Chicos half an hour ago.

  The waiter disappeared, presumably to get her drink, and Heather focused on the pictures again.

  “Is that Jared Leto?”

  “Looks like it,” Ryan said, appearing at her side.

  Heather heaved a sigh of relief, then rose from her seat and puckered up. She froze. Her eyes widened. “What happened to you?!”

  “Whoa, keep your voice down,” Ryan said.

  A few of the other diners dropped their forks and stared. Restaurant fights were a ‘thing’ in Hillside now.

  Heather dug her fingertips into her husband’s arm. “No, seriously, what happened to you?”

  “Babe, relax. It’s just a black eye. It comes with the territory.” He pecked her on the forehead, then rounded to his side of the table and slipped into his seat. “Any chance the waiter’s getting me a drink?”

  How could he be this serene about it? He’d been punched in the eye and he brushed it off like it was just another day at the office.

  “I’ve never seen you hurt. Not since we met. Never.”

  Ryan shrugged. “It happens from time to time.”

  “I hope you arrested the person for assaulting an officer,” Heather replied. She fiddled her bracelet up and down her wrist. Ryan had given it to her as a congratulations after she’d passed her test a couple weeks ago.

  Ryan waved Seth over and didn’t answer Heather’s question.

  “May I help you, sir?” Seth asked, then placed the margarita in front of Heather.

  “Yeah, could you get me one of those too?” He pointed to the lime colored drink. “And the menu would be great.”

  “Right away!” Seth scooted off again.

  Heather folded her arms and stared at Ryan. “Are you going to tell me who did this to you?”

  “I am,” Ryan said. “But you’ve got to promise to calm down. And keep it that way.”

  Heather grasped her drink, swished the liquid around inside the glass, and then took a sip. “Fine. I promise. Who hurt you?”

  “It’s a funny story, actually.”

  Doubtful. Anything that’d hurt Ryan couldn’t be funny.

  “I went to interview an old woman and she got a shock when she opened the door. Threw her teacup at me and it hit me in the eye.”

  “Which old woman?” Heather asked, and narrowed her eyes. She already had a hunch.

  Ryan arched an eyebrow – an answer in itself.

  “Ryan Shepherd, don’t make me come over to that side of the table,” she said, and pursed her lips.

  “All right, all right. It was Randy’s mother. Miriam Morton. She’s quite feisty for an old lady. Elderly woman. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Didn’t you identify yourself as an officer of the law?” Heather asked.

  Ryan shrugged. “I did, but I hadn’t shown her my badge yet. She hit me with a cup as soon as she opened the door, before I got the opportunity to whip it out.”

  “Wow. Sounds like grounds for arrest to me.”

  “Don’t start,” Ryan replied, “I love how protective you are, gorgeous, but I’m fine. Seriously. I’ve had worse injuries than a black eye.”

  Heather leaned in and examined the puffy skin around his injury. She winced and grabbed his hands, then stroked her thumbs over his knuckles.

  “I’m fine,” Ryan insisted. “But I didn’t get much out of her anyway. She was in some kinda shock while I was there. Shut up tighter than a clam.”

  “Oh yeah?” Heather asked.

  Seth arrived and placed a margarita and menus on the table, and Heather swallowed her questions. She couldn’t interfere and she’d sworn not to question him about the case.

  She had to accept whatever information he offered up. No probing, no prying, and tactful investigation on her part.

  Things would be much easier once she had her diploma.

  Heather picked up the menu and flopped it around. How could she eat now? Questions burned across the surface of her mind. Demands for the truth.

  Miriam Morton was up to something. Heather didn’t buy the ‘confused old lady’ excuse. Too many confused old ladies had turned out to be murderous battle axes for her liking.

  “The enchiladas again?” Ryan asked.

  “Huh? Oh, no, I think I’ll do the quesadillas this time. I can’t get enough Dos Chicos salsa,” Heather replied, heart only half in the order.

  “Uh oh,” Ryan said. “I know that look. Stay out of it, love. Remember what I told you at the start of all this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Heather said, forcing a smile. “I won’t jeopardize anything, I promise.”

  After all, asking questions couldn’t be counted as jeopardizing the case, could it? Just a few harmless questions to a potentially harmful grandma.

  Heather set her jaw. She nodded once. “Yeah, the quesadillas for me.” And tomorrow, a visit to the burger bar and the
woman who lived above it.

  Chapter 8

  Another sunny morning in Hillside and Heather had taken the day off from work. Perfect. She strode along the sidewalk, focus in her steps and a tune on her lips.

  Everything She Does Is Magic by the Police.

  Dave had stayed home because he had a donut hangover and refused to get off the sofa. Heather had caught him digging through the box on the coffee table and stopped the resulting gluttony just in time.

  “Silly dawg,” Heather muttered.

  She rounded the corner and ambled down the road. Randy’s Burger Bar waxed in the distance. The dead fluorescent sign drew her closer. Beckoning.

  Oh boy, she was in over her head with this one. She couldn’t let it go, if only because Jung had taken extra days off work and seemed removed of late.

  “Afraid,” Heather said, to herself. “Poor dude is afraid. And I’m the only one who can help him.”

  A Ford Fiesta slid around the corner and drove past. Heather caught her reflection in the tinted windows and frowned. Who’d black out their windows in this heat?

  The car stopped at the end of the road, and Heather glanced back over her shoulder.

  It stayed there, idling at the stop sign. No indicators or lights on.

  Shivers spread down Heather’s spine. She shook her head and chuckled under her breath, though she didn’t feel a hint of mirth. “You're silly. Nobody’s stalking you. No bricks through your window this time.”

  Heather’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She jumped, then laughed again and slid out the cell. She swiped her thumb across the screen, tapped through to her messages and read the text.

  You still owe me an exercise session. Be ready for another leg day, tonight. Or else. --- Ames

  “Ugh, are you kidding me?”

  The Ford Fiesta turned and drove back down the road, slowing to a stop across the road from her position.

  Heather locked her screen and stuck the cell in her back pocket this time. She hadn’t imagined danger, here. Whoever was in that car had a purpose, and it involved her. Time to check it out.

  Heather grappled with her left jean pocket, tugging at the cylinder caught between the layers of rough fabric. “C’mon,” she said, in a low growl.

  The car door opened.

  Ice plummeted into the pit of Heather’s stomach. She redoubled her efforts and dragged a can of pepper spray out of her jeans. She flipped the lid up and placed her finger on the button beneath. At the ready. “Bring it on,” she whispered.

  Heather stared at the white Ford.

  A man emerged from the driver’s seat. He straightened, slammed the door shut behind him, and then jangled his keys. He didn’t say a word, but then, he didn’t have to. His eyes said it all.

  So much anger and pain.

  “Mrs. Shepherd,” Detective Davidson said.

  “Davidson,” she replied. She couldn’t call him Detective. He’d been suspended from the force. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Heather didn’t put away the pepper spray – officer or not, Davidson had given both her and Ryan enough trouble to warrant suspicion.

  He’d conducted a darn witch hunt after his daughter’s death.

  Davidson crossed the street, boots crunching on loose stones. Heather stood her ground, eyes narrowed, finger itching on the ‘trigger.’

  “Please relax,” Davidson said, “I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

  “I’ll believe that, uh, never.” Heather didn’t relax an iota.

  Davidson halted a foot away from her and tucked his hands behind his back. He didn’t fiddle, but stood there, chest puffed out and chin raised, a picture of a man who’d had it all and lost it fast.

  “I’m sorry,” Davidson said, and he forced the words out between his teeth.

  “What?” Heather blinked. “I mean, pardon me?”

  “I’m sorry for what I did after Tara’s death. Neither of you deserved that. Ryan’s a good cop, and you’re a good person.” Pain flashed across his features. Apparently, he didn’t mean a word of the apology, because the sentences came out minced.

  “I don’t know what to say. You tried to jail me for a murder I didn’t commit. You tied my husband’s hands for more than one case. Your investigatory techniques were unorthodox to say the least,” Heather replied. She clutched her pink can of mace, then released that grip by increments. “I forgive you. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Davidson’s shoulders shook. He bowed his head and hid his expression from view.

  “I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child.” She’d said it before, but this time, she had a tiny inkling of an idea. She couldn’t picture her life without Lilly or Dave.

  “I’m leaving Hillside,” Davidson said. “For good, now. I’m quitting tomorrow, and then I’ll be gone for good.”

  “I understand. Thank you for speaking to me. I know this wasn’t easy for you.” Heather’s gaze darted to Randy’s Burger Bar in the background. The brick building stood quiet, solid. The lights off, and a metal stairway attached to the side closest to the corner of the street.

  Davidson grunted and nodded to her. He turned on his heel and marched to his car, then got in. The engine purred to life. The car drove off, and Heather was alone again.

  Finally, she slipped the can of mace back into her pocket.

  “That was strange,” she said. Maybe Davidson had needed closure, or maybe he had a more sinister reason for his visit – was it so hard to believe that he might still be out to get her?

  Heather took up humming again, checked the road both ways, then crossed, gaze fixed on the metal staircase to Mama Morton’s apartment.

  Chapter 9

  Heather knocked on the door. Okay, she didn’t knock, she rapped her knuckles lightly against the light balsa wood because she sure didn’t want a teacup to the eyeball afterward.

  “Who’s there!?” A rough voice screamed from within.

  “It’s me,” Heather replied, then rolled her eyes at herself. “Heather Shepherd. I just wanted to talk to you about a few things. I’m not armed or dangerous.”

  “Back away from the door,” the woman growled. She was right up against the wood, voice muffled by it.

  Heather stepped back and resisted the urge to raise her palms. “I’m standing back now.”

  A bolt drew back, the chain rattled. A click, turn and then another bolt. Another chain rattling. Two more bolts. How much protection did this lady need? Finally, the door swung a couple inches inwards, and a bright blue eye appeared in the crack, at waist level. Mama Morton was in a wheelchair.

  “What do you want?” Mama Morton asked.

  “To talk,” Heather said. “I was a friend of your grandson’s.” Little white lies here and there helped soothe the transition into interviews. She’d quit feeling guilty about it a while ago.

  “That good for nothing low life deserved what he got,” Miriam said, then spat on the metal grate just outside her front door.

  Heather stepped further back, keeping the disgust off her face. Wow. Mama Morton had upped the crabby factor in Hillside. Heather wasn’t accustomed to this treatment from the elderly.

  Everyone at Hillside Manor had a sunny disposition.

  “I heard that he gave you trouble,” Heather said, choosing her words wisely.

  Miriam Morton wriggled her nose. “Endless pain,” she said. “The boy didn’t have a nose for business or a head for anything. He was an idiot. I told his mother she should’ve thrown him out with the bathwater as a baby, but she never took me seriously. She’s just as silly. All comes from the father’s side you know, God rest his soul.”

  That was a lot of nasty information to process in the span of a couple of seconds.

  “May I come in? I’d love to talk to you about it. I’m sure you need to get some of your complaints off your chest.” Heather put up a winning smile. The smile that brought in customers and had romanced her hubby.

  The very same smile that stopped Dave from stealing
donuts. Though, that might’ve been Heather’s equally persuasive frown.

  Miriam licked her chapped lips. “Fine,” she said, then let out a high-pitched cackle. “You can make me some tea. I like a good cup of tea. Don’t like the coffee. Gives me gas.”

  Another fascinating snippet of info.

  Mama Morton opened the door all the way, and the scent of moth balls and dust wafted out into the morning air.

  Heather sneezed and blocked it with her fist.

  “You sick? Because I can’t afford to get sick. Doctor says I’ve got a heart arrhythmia. Never know what could kill me.”

  And that would truly be a great loss for the community in Hillside.

  “This way. Hurry it up. Don’t have time for lazy folks,” Morton said. She turned and wheeled back into the house. Her gray slippers skew on her heels, and her worn nightgown hung loosely on her pruned-up frame.

  Heather skirted around the globe of saliva on the grate, then followed the old woman inside.

  The hallway was light but devoid of pictures or decorations. Heather hurried down its length and into the living room, then pulled up short. Piles of magazines and newspapers lined the walls. A coffee table, littered in teacups, sat beside Morton’s only piece of furniture – a stained armchair.

  The old lady transferred herself from her wheelchair, into it, then cranked a lever on the side of her chair and raised her feet.

  “Kitchen’s through there,” Miriam said, jabbing her finger toward the archway behind Heather. “Tea’s on the counter. Hurry it up.”

  Heather turned and strode into the kitchen, which was as empty as the hallway, and filled Morton’s tea kettle under the faucet. “So, what can you tell me about your grandson?”

  “Good for nothing,” Miriam croaked. “Drove my legacy into the ground. My heritage. The Morton’s were meant to be great. Did you know, I refused to take his grandfather’s name? That idiot went to the grave with my family name. I made him change it. Unheard of back when we got married. Hah. He didn’t know what to do with himself.” Miriam broke off to yawn, by the sounds of it.

  Heather grabbed a teacup from the sink, washed it out, and then placed it on the counter. The porcelain clinked, lightly.