The little boy who'd mentioned belly fuzz shot his hand into air. Did I dare call on him?
I looked toward the teacher for a clue, and she nodded.
Taking a deep breath, I said, "Yes."
"Flour and sugar and yeast and other stuff," he said proudly.
"Very good," I said. "That's right. How on earth did you know that?"
"My mom makes donuts for me, and they're better than yours."
"Andy," Miss Dunbar said with a snap in her voice. "You need to apologize. You're being rude."
"It's true," Andy said stubbornly.
"Apologize."
He took a deep breath, then said, "I'm sorry my mother's donuts are better than yours are."
"Andy," the teacher snapped.
I couldn't hold back my laughter. "It's fine. I'm glad he likes his mother's food. Now, let's look at the bags of flour. They weigh more than any of you do."
"Even Stinky?" a little girl asked.
I looked around for an overweight child with an olfactory deficiency when the teacher said, "Stinky is her pet pig."
"Well, it depends on how big Stinky is. These bags weigh fifty pounds each."
"Stinky weighs a hundred times more than that," she said proudly.
"Good for him," I said, trying to move the conversation past Stinky and his eating habits.
"Here's where we mix the dough," I said as I pointed to the cutting board, "and here's where we proof it. Does anyone know what proofing is?"
One little girl raised her hand and said, "It's when you say something is true, and then you say why."
"That's proving, Jenny," Miss Dunbar said.
I stepped in and said, "Proofing is the second rising of the dough. It normally lasts about half an hour. After the dough is mixed, it rests the first time, then it's cut out into different shapes before it goes into the proofing cabinet."
"What's that thing hanging up there?" a little girl asked.
"That's a donut cutter," I said.
She looked at the aluminum wheel with a circle of round cutouts. "Could we see it work?"
I shrugged. "We don't have any dough at the moment, but when we do, we roll it out on the board, and then I roll this over it, just like this." I took both handles and rolled the cutter across the table.
"Ugh, what's that?" a boy asked as he pointed to the fryer. The grease had already started coalescing, and there was a skim coat of yellow on top.
"That's where we fry the donuts," I said.
"Gross," he said.
"Jimmie, that's enough."
"Well, it is," he said.
"Don't worry, once it's heated up, it's clear," I said.
"But that junk goes somewhere, doesn't it?"
Miss Dunbar said, "Class, we're getting off track. Let's let Mrs. Hart finish."
I wrapped up the tour and hustled the kids back out into the dining area before something happened to one
of the little darlings. I thought about having kids of my own from time to time, but certainly not in such massive quantities. They were a bit overwhelming.
Missy Dunbar said, "Thanks so much for pitching in."
A little boy tugged at her pants. "Miss Dunbar, aren't we getting hats? My dad took me on the Krispy Kreme tour, and we all got hats."
"How about those donut holes?" I asked.
Fortunately, the hats were quickly forgotten.
As I was collecting enough donut holes to feed the miniarmy of kids, a gruff man came in, wiping his hands on a rag. "Okay, Miss Dunbar, you're all set. I'm afraid you missed the tour, though."
"That's fine. We had a lovely time here," she said.
"Let me box these up for you, and you can have them on your way back to school," I said, shoveling donut holes into the box as fast as I could.
"You just want them hopped up on sugar as revenge, don't you?" she whispered.
I returned her smile. "It's the least I could do. Seriously, that was fun. Thanks for stopping by."
"Thanks for accommodating us," she said. "Next year, we're going to schedule a tour here first."
"I should be recovered by then," I said with a laugh.
Once they were gone, Emma said, "That was a nightmare."
"I thought it was fun," I said.
"You would," she replied as she ducked into the back, no doubt to see how much carnage they'd created on their visit.
Emma popped her head back out a minute later. "It looks fine back here. What happened?"
"You just have to know how to talk to them," I said, trying not to laugh. Miss Dunbar had my undying respect, being able to handle all of those kids as well as she did, and making an abrupt change in plans at a moment's notice.
I found myself wishing I'd had a teacher like that at some point on my own way through school.
I was just getting ready to close up for the day when Gabby walked in. "Suzanne, do you have a second?"
"What did you find out?" I asked. I was alone in the donut shop, having sent Emma home half an hour earlier. It had been quiet, and I didn't want to pay her for standing around, especially when there were a thousand other places she'd rather be. She'd also been complaining of feeling drained and worn out, like she was starting to get sick, and I couldn't afford losing her on the early shift when I needed her help making donuts.
"There was indeed one police officer who had a special relationship with Patrick Blaine."
"Who was it?" I asked. Gabby wasn't making it easy on me. She knew something I wanted to hear, and it was against her nature to just blurt it out without making me beg for it.
"His name is Grant," she said proudly.
"Not Moore? Are you sure about that?" As soon as I'd heard a police officer had been involved, I'd automatically assumed it had been Officer Moore. After all, he'd kept coming by the donut shop to check on my memory of events since the murder.
"I was told it was Officer Grant," she said severely.
"Okay. Thanks for checking into it for me."
"Are you going to confront him? I could come with you," Gabby said.
"I'm not ready for that, but I'll call you when I am," I lied.
After she was gone, I kept staring off into space, wondering if I could have been so wrong about Stephen Grant. Had I assumed he was one of the good guys, since he'd been a regular customer of mine for years? Could I be that blind? Did that mean that Officer Moore was clean in all of this? When I thought about it, I really had no reason to suspect him of anything. Maybe he'd just been checking up on me as part of his job. I was starting to feel really bad about the way I'd been treating him when I saw a squad car pull up in front of the shop.
It was Moore himself, and I was surprised when I realized I was glad he'd come by, instead of the chief or Officer Grant. I didn't want to see Chief Martin, and I wasn't sure I could face Stephen Grant, at least not until I knew more about his meeting with Patrick Blaine.
"Am I too late for a cup of coffee?" Officer Moore asked as he came in.
"It's not that fresh, but it's on the house, if you'd like some. I was just getting ready to close up."
He looked at the donuts still in the display case behind me, then glanced at the window. "In that case, I'll take a glazed donut, too."
I'd been talking about the coffee and not the donuts, but why not? It couldn't hurt to get a little good will out of something I was just going to give away anyway.
I put the donut and coffee in front of him, and as
he took a sip, I said, "I have a question that's going to sound a little crazy."
"That's fine with me," he said as he took a bite.
"Does anyone on the force have a bandage on his forearm?"
He nearly choked on his coffee. "Why in the world do you want to know that? And don't tell me it's idle speculation. What are you after? Is there someone in particular you're asking about?"
Why not? Now was as good a time as any to try out my theory. "I was wondering about Officer Grant."
"Steve?" he asked. "Let me think. Yeah, he does have a scratch on one arm. Claims he was cutting a tree limb, and part of it snagged on his shirt and cut him through the skin. It's not much, but he's got a bandage on it. Do you mind telling me how you knew about that? I didn't think you'd be able to see it, since we're all wearing our long-sleeved uniforms right now because of the cold weather."
"I thought I saw him favoring it the last time he was in, and I was worried he'd hurt himself," I said.
"He's fine. From what I hear, it's not that big a scratch." He finished his donut, then asked, "Is there anyone else you were curious about? Hurley has a trick knee, but he's doing okay, too."
"It's good to hear the police force is ready to serve and protect," I said.
Moore must have thought I was crazy, but I didn't care. I'd found some possible evidence that Officer Grant might have been the one who'd attacked me in the park.
But what was I going to do with my newfound information?
I couldn't ask Chief Martin about it--he wasn't all that inclined to care about my theories--and Jake was still mad I hadn't called him after the attack. Anyway, I'd need something a lot more concrete than I had at the moment before I accused a cop of any wrongdoing.
It was time to see what I could find out about Officer Stephen Grant.
But I still had three dozen donuts to deal with. I'd made too many again, and was starting to wonder if April Springs was growing tired of what I had to offer. Was it time to come up with some new recipes, or should I try something more drastic? I'd experiment with the recipes first, since that was the least expensive way to generate new business. I really should box up the extras and take them around to a few businesses in town, but I just wasn't in the mood. Instead, I'd drop them off with Father Pete and let him deal with them.
The rector wasn't in his office at the church, and I thought about just leaving the boxed donuts on his desk, but I'd done that once before, and he hadn't found them until the next day. He liked to roam around his parish, and I wanted to be sure he knew I'd been there.
I found him in the hallway outside the youth rec room of the church.
"What are you doing out here?" I asked.
He put a finger to his lips. "I'm eavesdropping on the rehearsal," he said.
I looked inside, and saw Max and his troupe of seniors working on
West Side Story
. It was amusing,
watching them figure out the choreography for the big fight scene. I'd have to buy a ticket to see it myself when they went on sale.
"They're really good," Father Pete said. "Once you get over the premise that they're supposed to be a bunch of teenagers. It was a bold choice for Max to make."
"He's been known for his bold choices over the years," I said.
Max was demonstrating a move when I caught sight of his right forearm. There was a bandage on it, and I felt the blood drain from my face.
Father Pete noticed it, too. "Suzanne? Are you all right? You look as if you've just seen a ghost."
"I wish that's all it was," I said. Could Max have been my attacker? It was hard for me to believe, but he had reacted violently when he'd brought me those roses. Was the park confrontation a way for him to get back at me anonymously?
"Tell me what happened," he said calmly, and I knew why so many folks in April Springs came to Father Pete with their problems, regardless of their faith.
"It's nothing," I said as I thrust the donuts into his hands.
He took them, then said, "You know I'm here if you ever need me."
"I know. Thanks, Father."
I left the church, and had to try putting my key into the door lock of the Jeep four times before I could steady it enough to get it in. I had two new suspects, two men who hadn't even been on my list a
day earlier. But could I really see Max, or Officer Grant, attacking me in the park?
I had trouble visualizing it, but I had to admit that I'd been wrong before.
It was time to do a little more digging into the lives of the suspects I'd been considering all along. I might not be able to eliminate any of my new suspects yet, but maybe I'd be able to knock Rita or Deb or Lincoln Klein off the list.
Rita answered her door when I knocked, and to my great surprise, she was stone-cold sober. "Yes?" It appeared that she didn't recognize me.
"I need to talk to you."
She started to slam the door in my face, then hesitated. "I know you, don't I? You came by here and demanded to see me."
"More than once," I admitted. "The first time we had the most charming chat, and the second time you hid inside and refused to even answer your door."
Rita's face melted into a frown. "I was afraid of that. Whatever I told you before, it's not true. I can't be held responsible for anything I might have said. I was taking a prescription that didn't agree with me."
"That's funny, I don't know any doctors who prescribe vodka. We need to talk, or I can come back with a state police investigator, if you'd rather."
I could see the wheels turning in her mind. Finally, she said, "You might as well come in."
I walked inside, and was surprised to find the living room clean, as well as being devoid of empty liquor bottles.
"For the record, I wasn't hiding from you the other day. I'd had a bad conversation with one of my friends, a former friend, I should say, and I wasn't in the mood to speak with anyone. Please don't take it personally."
"How could I?" I asked. "It's your right not to answer your own door."
She seemed to accept that. "Coffee?" she offered. "I'm drinking it by the gallon, so you might as well join me."
