"I'll make it for you right now," Emma said, "but don't say a word until I get back. Do you two understand me?"
George just nodded.
"Suzanne?"
I shook my head. "I'm sorry, were you under the impression that you were in charge here? Would you like to fill our customer's order, or would you rather join him on the other side of the counter as an unemployed donut maker?" I'd said it in my sweetest Southern accent, but she heard the steel beneath the surface.
"Yes, ma'am. I'll get right on making that donut."
When she disappeared in back to create the requested treat, George said, "We need to talk, but not in front of her. I don't like this."
"I didn't have much choice, but we can protect her."
"We're not even sure we can protect you," he said. "Tell her what you want, but I'm just going to talk to you about what I found out."
"Can it wait until closing?" I whispered.
"I think so. I'll meet you by the back door at noon. Send her on some fool's errand before then, but don't put her in the line of fire."
"I'm sorry, George. Agreeing with her seemed to be the only way I could keep her out of trouble."
"That's fine, as long as that's the way it stays." If it were possible, George was being even more over-protective of Emma than he was of me. He might be a gruff old bear to the rest of the world, but I knew just how big the soft spot in his heart really was.
Emma came back with the requested donut on a plate, and it was pretty clear to me that George wished he'd been more careful placing his order. I could have saved him with an excuse, but what fun would that have been? I watched him struggle to eat it, then he smiled brightly when he finished.
I asked, "Would you like another one just like it?"
George pushed his plate away. "No, thanks, I'm good."
"So, why are you here?" Emma asked.
"Like I said, I came by for a donut," he said.
My assistant frowned. "I don't believe you."
He just shrugged. "That's entirely up to you, now isn't it?"
George slid a five under his plate. "See you later."
"That's way too much, and you know it."
He looked at the bill, then George swapped it out with another one from his wallet. "Sorry. I thought it was a single."
"You could at least tip me something," I said, shaking my head. His one barely covered my morning special of coffee and a donut for a dollar before six A.M.. It was a way to encourage early-morning business, since very few people who came in could stop at just one donut.
He dug a quarter out of his pants pocket, then laid it beside his plate. "I'll talk to you later."
As soon as he was gone, Emma asked, "What
was that all about? I thought you were going to include me in what's going on."
"Emma, if you have a problem with the way George acted, I suggest you talk to him about it. Now, we've got work to do. You need to ice the plain cake donuts, and make a few peanut ones while you're at it."
"Yes, ma'am."
At a quarter after six, George came back into the donut shop.
"Did you change your mind?" I asked him. "I knew one donut wouldn't be enough for you."
"Suzanne Hart, have you lost your mind?"
"Probably. What are you talking about?"
"You're making yourself a target by being so obvious in your digging; you realize that, don't you?"
I had no idea where this conversation was going, but I'd never been a big fan of being scolded, even if it was coming from a good friend. Especially since it was. "What do you mean?"
George shook his head. "You're an amateur, and don't take that as an insult, because it happens to be true. If you stumble along blindly looking into this case, you're going to attract the wrong kind of attention. Did you think what you're doing would go unnoticed? One of the cops at the bank noticed you talking to Blaine's assistant. He told me about ten minutes ago, so don't try to deny it."
I took a deep breath, and then admitted, "I'm guilty as charged. I also talked to two of Blaine's clients. I can't solve this with a Ouija board; I need to talk to people."
"Were you really under the impression no one
would notice? You're going to get exactly the wrong kind of attention acting that way."
I thought about keeping what had happened the night before to myself, but it wasn't fair to ask George for help, then not tell him everything.
Reluctantly, I admitted, "I got a phone call last night warning me to drop it, or I was going to be in trouble." Maybe I edited it a little, but if I'd repeated the conversation to George verbatim, he'd never let me out of his sight again.
"Did you tell Bishop about the call?"
"No," I said.
He frowned for a moment, then said, "How about the chief?"
"George, I appreciate your concern, but there's no way to tell who called me. For all I know, it could have just been a prank."
He looked into my eyes, then said softly, "But you don't think so, do you?"
"No," I admitted. "It was real enough. But I still can't let that stop me."
"Just be a little more discreet then, okay?"
I shrugged. "I can try, but I won't make any promises."
After George left, I started wondering if he was right. Should I sit back and wait to see what might happen? If I did that, I might end up as a target, with no chance to stop an attack before it could happen. No, I had to keep doing what I was doing, and if it ruffled some feathers, so be it.
Twenty minutes later, I was still fretting over my conversation with George when a friendly face walked in through the door. " 'Morning, Suzanne,"
Bob Lee said as he came into the shop. "Are my pies ready yet?"
"I finished them ten minutes ago, but you were late, so I sold them," I said.
Bob looked as though he wanted to cry, so I said quickly, "I'm kidding. I would never sell your pies to anybody but you." The retired gentleman came by three days a week for fried apple pies, turnovers I made with apple filling. They weren't that popular with most of the crowd that came into Donut Hearts, but Bob loved them, and I was happy to oblige.
He greedily took the box of palm-sized pies and breathed in their aroma of apples, cinnamon, and fried dough. "If I have anything to say about it, that's what heaven's going to smell like."
"You won't get any disagreements from me," I said as I rang up his sale. I loved making the pies. For one thing, they were the perfect use for the third rising of the yeast dough, one that was too stiff for donuts, but perfect for fried pies and fritters. Not much went to waste at the donut shop, and that helped the bottom line. Honestly, though, I hated throwing anything out, and using the scraps of dough left over from everything else really appealed to me.
After he was gone, Emma said, "You shouldn't tease him like that. One day he's going to have a heart attack, eating like he does."
I said softly, "Would you mind lowering your voice? Do we really want folks to think about what they're eating when they come here?"
She blushed, something that was remarkable to see in a redhead. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."
"Emma, don't get me wrong," I said, "donuts are a wonderful treat, but even I don't recommend them as a steady diet. But think about how dull the world would be if it was only filled with whole wheat and granola."
"You're preaching to the choir," Emma said. "Nobody around here is about to argue with you."
"If we're lucky, maybe we'll have a quiet morning," I said.
Emma pointed toward the door. "I wouldn't be too sure about that."
I turned around and saw my ex-husband, Max, coming into the donut shop. It was too late to duck into the kitchen, so I put on my best smile as he neared the counter.
"What can I get you this morning?" I said.
There was a gleam in his eye, which I needed to quell immediately. I added quickly, "I'm talking about donuts, Max."
He nodded. "That's why I'm here. I'll take two dozen. You pick them out for me, okay?"
"Are you going to eat all of these by yourself?" I said idly as I collected the donuts in two of our boxes.
Max smiled, and I felt my heart flutter a little. "Why, are you jealous I might have company helping me?"
"Hardly," I said, putting two blueberry donuts inside, a treat I knew from experience that Max hated. It served him right for goading me.
"If you must know, they're for my theater group. We're putting on
West Side Story
in May."
I taped the boxes shut and told him how much he owed me. As I made change from the twenty he handed over, I said, "Out of curiosity, who's the youngest member of your troupe?"
He scratched his chin, then said, "I guess that would be Hattie Moon. She's not sixty yet."
"At least not according to her," I said. "I'd love a peek at the driver's license, though. That lady has had at least six birthdays for fifty-nine."
Max winked at me. "A woman never tells the truth about her age anyway, does she?"
"Mabel Young does."
He shook his head. "Mabel doesn't count. She's the only woman I've ever known who adds ten years to her real age."
"Think about it," I said. "When Mabel tells folks she's eighty instead of seventy, they always make a fuss about how young she looks. She does it for the attention."
Max said, "If I live to be a thousand, I'll never understand women."
"That's okay, we don't get you, either. Bye, Max."
"Good-bye, Suzanne."
I couldn't believe it. He hadn't asked me about my investigation, or scolded me once for anything. That was a record for Max. Was he really changing? Was it even possible? Should I give him another chance? There had been a lot that was right about my marriage to Max. I'd tended to ignore all of that with the image of him and that trollop together, but it was there, nonetheless. Even if I could forgive him for cheating on me, though, could I ever forget? I sincerely
doubted it. No, if I was being honest with myself, it was probably time to move on.
Three older women, two brunettes and a redhead, walked into the shop half an hour after Max left, and approached the counter like a force of nature. They were all obviously well off by the way they dressed and carried themselves, but there was nothing haughty about them.
The redhead spoke after looking happily around at the donut shop's decor.
"This shop is absolutely perfect," she said.
"I'm glad you like it," I replied. "If it's donuts you're after, you came to the right place. I've got coffee, too."
"No, that's not it at all. Well, of course we'll enjoy those, as well, but what we really need is a quiet place for our book club to meet, and we are hoping you'll let us hold the first meeting here."
I had visions of hordes of women gathered in my shop, buying up all of my stock as they discussed the latest literary novel. "We might be able to arrange something. What day did you have in mind?"
She looked at me oddly for a second, then laughed. "Why, right now, of course."
I looked behind her and saw her two friends waiting patiently for us to finish our conversation. "Are you all out in search of a location?"
She frowned. "No, so far there's just the three of us. Hazel's apartment is being painted, so we can't meet there. Elizabeth's cousin is staying with her, and she hasn't read a book since the eighties. Since my husband retired, I can't get him to leave the house, so
we decided we had to find a place that would work for all of us. I'm Jennifer, by the way. Please, won't you help us?"
How could I say no to that? "As long as you don't disturb my other customers, you're welcome to have your meeting here." It might be nice to give the place a literary edge.
She said, "Thank you," and the three women took a couch in the corner. After they settled in, Jennifer came back to the counter and stared at my display racks.
After a few moments, she said, "We'll take three of those pinecones--they look delightful--and three of your most exotic coffees."
"Coming right up," I said. I poured three cups of a new blend I'd let Emma talk me into buying, then added three donut-pinecones. I loved making them, snipping the dough with scissors until I had them looking perfect.
She paid me with a fifty, and as I started to make change, she said, "I'm sure we'll want something else. Just keep that and let me know when we run out."
I nodded, and made a note on the pad by the register where we kept track of things. After the host distributed the coffees and treats, the three women pulled out copies of the same book, a current mystery I'd just finished reading myself.
Keeping her voice low, I heard Jennifer say, "First, let's discuss the significance of the ornamental dagger and the weathered shotgun in chapter one. I thought for sure one of them would turn out to be the murder weapon. Did anyone else?"
"I admit, I never can figure these things out," Hazel said.
"I don't know why everyone always tries to guess who did it before the end," Elizabeth replied. "I read mysteries for the characters and the setting. The mystery's just an added bonus for me."
"I still never saw the bust of Poe as a murder weapon," Jennifer said.
I grabbed a pot and filled it with the blend they were drinking. As I refilled their cups, I said, "I thought the foreshadowing was well done. The way the light from the hallway reflected in Poe's eyes when the detective came into the room gave me the shivers."
"You've read it?" Jennifer asked, the delight clear in her voice. "Won't you join us?"
"I'd love to, but I've got my hands full at the moment."
