Mint Chip Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 6 (3 page)

Even before Heather picked up the
morning paper in its plastic sleeve from her front porch, she could see the
large-font, bolded letters of the headline.  She took the paper back inside,
closed the door behind her, and shook the rolled-up tube from the plastic wrapper. 
Unfolding it, she read, “Local Woman Found Bludgeoned to Death.”

She carried the paper into the kitchen
and sat down at the table.  Holding the paper up with one hand, she gripped the
handle of her coffee cup with the other and raised the mug to her lips.  Taking
her first sip of the brew, she began to read.

            “Yesterday morning,
28-year-old Hillside resident Kelly Carlson was found           bludgeoned to
death inside her hair salon, Shear Beauty.  Ms. Carlson had been a resident of
Hillside for 5 years.  Her body was found this morning by her assistant, Rachel
Goodman, when Ms. Goodman arrived for work.

            Police say Carlson was
killed sometime the night before.  At this time, they are not releasing any
details about potential suspects.  The Hillside Herald has learned, however,
that arrests have been made in the vicinity of Shear Beauty the night Carlson
was killed. Three juveniles were taken into custody for possession of marijuana
and possession of a firearm. Their names are not being released because they
are minors.”

Hmm, she thought.  Interesting.  Could
the three teenagers have killed Kelly? True, she hadn’t been shot, but maybe
they’d pistol-whipped her and gone too far.

But why would they have attacked her
inside the shop?  Why would they have been inside late at night, and what
motive could they have had for the attack?

On TV, it’s always money or love, she
thought.  Assuming it wasn’t love—because that just doesn’t sound right—could
it have been money?  Maybe they knew Kelly was closing up shop and probably had
some cash on hand from the day’s proceeds?

Maybe so.  But that still left the
matter of how they had gotten inside.  Of course, Kelly may very well not have
felt threatened by three teenagers.  She may have either let them in after the
door was locked, or let them stay after the last customer left. 

But wasn’t marijuana supposed to make
people mellow?  Wasn’t it usually people who were hopped up on crack or
something that went around killing people, not people who were high on pot?

The one time Heather had tried pot had
been long ago, when she was in high school.  She hadn’t felt like doing
anything violent.  In fact, it had seemed like a great idea to lie on her back
on her friend’s sofa and contemplate the meaning of life and of the ceiling
tiles.  So, yeah, it wasn’t likely that the teenagers had smoked a joint, and
then attempted to rob and kill Kelly.  Of course, maybe they hadn’t been high
at the time.

“Aarrggh,” Heather groaned out loud in
frustration.  Nothing about this seemed to make sense, and Ryan had said he
couldn’t tell her much this time. 

It wasn’t even really her business to
try to figure things out.  And she certainly wasn’t a professional.  But her
overactive curiosity gene wouldn’t allow her to let the mystery go.  Any
mystery, for that matter.  And this one was more important than most, because a
young woman had lost her life.

Scratching at the back door alerted her
that Dave wanted back in.  She opened the door for him and contemplated, for
the thousandth time, having a doggie door installed.  But her friend Kathleen
had had one put in, and Kathleen’s dog wouldn’t even use the door.  He was
afraid of it, Kathleen said.

“Guess I’ll just keep letting you in,
Dave,” Heather said, pouring some kibble into Dave’s bowl next to the
refrigerator.  She picked up his water bowl, dumped the water out in the sink,
and filled it with fresh water.  “Here you go,” she said, setting it down next
to his food.  Dave took a couple of perfunctory laps from it, and then went
back to crunching his kibble.

She glanced at the clock on the
microwave, saw that it was 7:02, and decided she might as well get ready for
work.  She’d woken up early that morning—well, early for her, at least.  She
normally didn’t get up until 7.  But her employees—Maricela, Angelica, Jung,
and Ken—arrived at Donut Delights at 3 a.m.

Heather shuddered just thinking about
having to be up that early on a regular basis.  Even doing it for just a couple
days when Maricela and Angelica had to miss work for a death in the family a
couple months ago had made her desperate for sleep.  And even more grateful
than she already was for her fantastic employees who, over the months or years
they had worked for her, had become like family.

***

Sure enough, when she came through the
back door of her shop into the kitchen at 7:45, the four of them were hard at
work making donuts and serving customers.  She dropped her purse in the bottom
drawer of her desk in her tiny office and turned back toward the kitchen.

Grabbing a hairnet, slipping it over
her hair, and tying on an apron, she joined Ken at the counter, where he was
cheerfully filling customers’ orders for donuts.  Jung worked alongside him,
but Heather knew Jung preferred to make donuts rather than help run the
register.

“I’ve got it.  You can go see if
Maricela and Angelica need anything,” Heather said.

“Thanks,” Jung said.  “Holler if you
need me.”

For the next thirty minutes, Heather
and Ken were kept busy serving the customers who arrived in a steady stream,
ordering donuts, then lingering at the wrought iron tables and chairs as they
enjoyed a brief respite from their busy lives.  When the pace began to slow
down, Heather grabbed a coffee pot and circulated among the tables, refilling
people’s cups.

Interacting with her customers was
Heather’s favorite part of her job.  To her, that’s what owning a business was
all about, providing her customers with an experience where they felt that not
only their money was valued, but they were valued.  And you just couldn’t
communicate that if you stayed behind the counter all the time.

When she’d refilled everyone’s cup that
wanted a refill and brought two more donuts to a couple who had decided to try
another gourmet flavor, Heather slipped back into the kitchen.  “Everything
okay back here?” she asked.

“Everything’s fine,” Ken said. 
“Actually, I have something for you.”

“For me?  What is it?”

“I’ll get it,” Ken said.  He walked
over to the employees’ lockers that were tucked in the back corner of the
kitchen and came back carrying something on a tray.  “It’s a coffee cake,” he
said, presenting it to her.  “My wife made this to thank you for hiring me on
permanently.”

“That was nice of her,” Heather said,
accepting the platter, “but she didn’t have to do that.  You’re an amazing
employee.  I’m lucky to have you.”

Ken ducked his head and smiled.  “I
told her you knew how to bake,” he said, “but she insisted.”

“I know how to make donuts,” Heather
said.  “I don’t know how to bake.  Big difference.”  She glanced at the front
counter and saw there was no line of customers waiting.  “Let’s take this into
my office, and everyone can have a piece.  Somebody grab napkins and a knife, will
you?”

They all crowded into the office that
wasn’t really big enough for five people but somehow held them all.  Heather
cut slices of the coffee cake and passed them out.  When each of her employees
had one, she served herself a piece and took a bite.

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed as
the buttery cinnamon flavor rolled across her tongue.  “This is fantastic!”

“Thank you,” Ken said.  “I’ll tell her
you said that.”

“Tell her I need the recipe,” Heather
said.  “We need to turn this into a donut.”

“How are you going to turn it into a
donut?” Ken asked.

“Mmm,” she said, licking her lips to
catch any stray traces of brown sugar.  “We start out with a medium-weight cake
donut and top it with chopped pecan crumbles and a brown sugar-cinnamon-butter
glaze.  We can call them Cinnamon Crumbles.”

“You’re going to make a donut from my
wife’s recipe?”

“If she doesn’t mind,” Heather said.

“Mind?  She’ll be thrilled.”

“Great,” Heather said, taking another
bite of coffee cake and rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.  “Mmm.  Okay, I
better get back out front before I sit down in here and eat this entire thing
myself.”

As she approached the glass cases
where they displayed the luscious donuts for sale, the door opened, and a group
of teenagers walked in, chattering and laughing.  Heather glanced at the clock
and saw that it was 8:30.  Hadn’t school already started?  Well, maybe not.

“Good morning.  What can I get for you
today?” she asked with her friendliest smile.

But even as she filled their order,
her mind wasn’t on the donuts they chose or the drinks they purchased. 
Instead, her thoughts were focused on another group of teenagers she hadn’t
even met.  Teenagers with a gun and some drugs.  Teenagers who might have
killed Kelly Carlson.

***

Heather wasn’t sure what made her
decide to take a break and drive past Shear Beauty.  It wasn’t as if she
thought she could find some clue that the police had missed.  But
something—that curiosity gene again?—prompted her to head down Lakeridge and
turn in to the parking lot.

The yellow crime scene tape was gone,
which didn’t surprise her.  She figured the police would have gotten everything
they needed before they  left yesterday.  Pulling into a parking spot directly
in front of Shear Beauty, Heather put the car in park and sat there thinking. 
It probably wouldn’t hurt for her to get a glimpse inside.  Despite having
patronized the dry cleaner next door for years, she’d never been into the
salon.

Heather got out and stepped up onto
the sidewalk.  Would anybody think it was strange for her to be there?  No,
they’d probably just think she didn’t know the shop was closed.  Maybe they’d
think she had an appointment to get her hair done.

She approached the plate glass window
on which bright orange and yellow window art proclaimed Special!  Ladies’ hair
cuts $20.  Men’s $15.  Children’s $12.  Cupping her hands around her face, she
leaned toward the window until her nose touched the glass and peered inside.

It looked just like any other hair
salon she had ever seen.  There were two sinks, two client chairs and stylist
workstations, and two hair dryer chairs.  Black plastic chairs with metal legs
where customers could sit and wait for their turn lined the front wall on
either side of the door.  A coffee table held magazines.  A plastic plant stood
in one corner.

Heather jumped as a young woman came
out of what Heather assumed was the stock room carrying a bag.  “We’re closed!”
the young woman called out, her voice faint through the glass.

“I don’t want a haircut,” Heather
said, trying to strike a balance between making her voice audible to the
employee and not broadcasting her business to anyone who might be walking by. 

“I just want to ask you something.”

The young woman came to the front
door, turned the lock, and opened the door a crack.  “We’re closed,” she
repeated.  “Sorry.”

“I know,” Heather said.  “I know what
happened here.  I just had a question.”

“What’s your question?”

“Could I come in?” Heather asked.

At first, the young woman hesitated,
and Heather thought she was going to tell her to go away.  But then the woman
stepped back, pulled the door open further, and allowed Heather in.  “Let’s go
in the back room,” she said.  “I don’t want anyone to see us talking and think
we’re open.”

Heather followed her into the stock
room, where the light was already on.  “I’m Heather Janke,” she said.

“I’m Lisa,” she said.  “Lisa
Giddings.  Look, I’m not sure how you think I can help you, but I didn’t want
to try to have this conversation through the front window.”