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  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2016 by Guardian Publishing Group - All rights reserved.

  All rights Reserved. No part of this publication or the information in it may be quoted from or reproduced in any form by means such as printing, scanning, photocopying or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 1

  “Wow,” Heather said in a hushed voice. Standing on her front porch, she surveyed a sodden lawn littered with leaves and branches that, until very recently, had belonged to the huge oak that spread its branches overhead.

  One particularly large branch rested on her roof, attached to the trunk of the tree by mere splinters. Stepping over to the edge of the porch, her friend Amy glanced up at it. “You’re going to have to have your roof checked,” she said. “And that branch cut off.”

  Heather nodded. Walking slowly down the front sidewalk, she saw a few of her neighbors doing the same thing in their own yards. Now that the tornado had passed, everyone had come out to assess the damage.

  Most of the yards on the block looked like hers—littered with branches and leaves, but no real damage done. Thank God for that, at least.

  “Everybody okay at your place?” her next door neighbor, Harold Jackson, called to her.

  “We’re fine,” she called back. “Rode out the storm in my hall closet. You guys okay?”

  “We’re all right. Me and my wife got in the tub and just sat there hoping the roof didn’t crash in on us. Guess it didn’t. We’re thankful for that.”

  “Could have been a lot worse,” she said.

  “Yep. That, it could have. Well, glad everything’s okay over there. You let me know if you need any help cleaning up.”

  “Will do,” she said. “And thanks.”

  Jackson raised a hand in a friendly wave and turned back to surveying his own property.

  “Doesn’t look too bad out here,” Heather said to Amy. “Let’s check the back yard.”

  As they passed through the house on the way to the back door, Dave, her little, fluffy white mixed-breed dog, scampered around their feet anxiously. “You know something’s wrong, don’t you?” she asked. “But it’s okay now. Everything’s okay.”

  Dave followed them to the back yard and came outside with them as Heather took inventory of what had been damaged. Fortunately, there didn’t appear to be any major damage—just leaves and branches everywhere, and one dent on the hood of her car where something must have fallen on it and then slid to the ground.

  She circled the car, checking for further damage, but there wasn’t any. “Looks like you got off pretty light,” Amy said. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to run home and see how everything looks at my place.”

  “Go,” Heather said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  When Amy had backed her car out of the driveway, Heather went back inside to grab a couple of trash bags. Might as well start cleaning up.

  She spent the next hour going through both the front and the back yard to pick up larger pieces of debris, then going back through both with a rake to gather the leaves into piles. Once she had stuffed armloads of them into the bags, tied the bags shut, and lined them up beside her garage until the City of Hillside got around to deciding when storm pickup would be, she went back inside, flopped down on the couch, and patted the cushion next to her.

  Dave jumped up beside her, snuggled next to her leg, then rolled over, showing her his belly and begging for her to scratch it. Which she did, until her cell phone rang a few seconds later.

  She jumped to her feet—“Sorry, Dave!”—listened for the direction the sound was coming from, and found the device on her kitchen counter. Ryan Shepherd, the screen read. She smiled and slid her thumb across the screen to accept the call. “Hey there.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. There’s one branch from the tree in my front yard that is resting on the roof, but other than that, no significant damage.”

  “Good. I tried to call you an hour ago, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Sorry. I was outside cleaning up my yard. I guess I forgot to take my phone out with me.”

  “As long as you’re okay,” he said.

  “I’m fine. Amy was here with me, so we hid in the closet together. She went home to check out the damage at her place.”

  “Looks like most of Hillside got off pretty light,” he said.

  “Have you been out looking around?”

  “No. I’ve been listening to the radio,” he said, referring to his police radio. “Not too many calls.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “At least, hopefully, no one was out murdering anybody in the storm, so maybe you won’t get called out.”

  Ryan was a detective on the Hillside Police Department. Their first date had been a little over two months ago, and they’d seen each other several times since then. Their relationship was moving slowly, but she was okay with that. Ryan was a widower, and she didn’t want to rush him into anything if he wasn’t ready. She had been married for 5 years, then divorced. If she ever got into a serious relationship again, she wanted to make sure it was with the right person this time.

  “Yeah, hopefully not,” he said. “So do you—” He paused, and she could hear radio chatter in the background.

  “I may have spoken too soon,” he said suddenly. “I’ll call you back.” Then he was gone.

  She sighed. That was the problem with dating a police detective. You never knew when duty might call.

  Oh, well. He was worth it.

  ***

  She checked her text messages and found one from Amy that read, Everything’s ok. Yard’s a mess. No major damage.

  She texted back, Good. Then she flipped on the TV to one of the major networks to see if whatever call Ryan had just gotten was on the news. It wasn’t—not yet, at least—so she went to the kitchen to scrounge around in the fridge and see what she could find for supper.

  Supper wound up being a salad. She put the last of a tub of lettuce into a large bowl, added some olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette, and tossed it all together. A few croutons and some sunflower seeds gave the salad some crunch.

  She ate it as she sat on the couch watching TV, but there was nothing about Ryan’s call. Just as she forked the last bite of salad into her mouth, her phone rang, and the screen showed his name. “Hello?” she mumbled around a mouthful of lettuce.

  “Heather, you’re not going to like this,” he said.

  Sometimes, his way of getting right to the point was endearing. Other times, like now, it made the bottom drop out of her stomach. “What happened?” she asked.

  “There was one fatality due to the storm. It’s Verna Dixon.”

  “Verna Dixon? Isn’t she the lady who lives out on the edge of town? Who serves on the library board and works at the hospital and serves on about a thousand committees?”

  “Yes, that Verna.”

  “That’s a sh
ame. What happened to her?”

  “She was found halfway between her home and the chicken coop she had out back. Apparently a piece of wood from the chicken coop was torn off by the wind. It caught Verna in the chest. Straight in.”

  “Oh, no,” Heather sighed. “That’s too bad. Poor Verna.”

  “I’m on my way out there right now. Told patrol not to touch anything until I get there.”

  “Why? If her death was due to the storm, I mean.”

  “I just want to make sure.”

  “Well, either way, it’s sad,” she said. “I’m going to miss Verna. I didn’t know her very well, but I had met her and talked with her several times. She was always friendly.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  ***

  As Heather was brushing her teeth before bed, having already slipped into a cotton t-shirt-and-capris pajama set, she heard the notification tone from her phone indicating that she had received a text.

  She rinsed her mouth and spit, then rinsed out her toothbrush until every last speck of toothpaste had been washed down the drain. Placing the toothbrush back in its holder, she let her long, curly red hair out of the clip she’d used to keep it out of the way while she washed her face, turned out the bathroom light, and went into her bedroom.

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she checked the message. It was from Ryan. Patrol officer thought it was a hole made from the piece of wood. It was a bullet hole.

  Heather frowned. Something didn’t make sense. What? she texted back.

  Thirty seconds later, her phone pinged again. Piece of wood stuck in a hole in Verna Dixon’s chest. It was a bullet hole.

  Slowly, Heather’s mouth dropped open. So somebody shot her, then stuck a piece of wood in the hole???

  Sick people in this world, he texted back. Try to get some sleep.

  Yeah, right, she thought as she laid the phone on her nightstand and slipped beneath the covers. Like I’m going to sleep now.

  She lay awake wondering not only why in the world someone would shoot Verna Dixon, but why presumably the same person would then place a small stick of wood into the bullet hole.

  Maybe to make it look like Verna was killed by flying debris. But wouldn’t the person—the killer—realize that it would be obvious that the piece of wood hadn’t made the hole?

  When she finally fell asleep, her dreams were in black and white. A tornado swirled around Verna’s little house. As Verna struggled frantically to shut the window, a piece of the shutter broke off and lodged itself in her chest. Verna fell back onto the bed, unable to move. “Help me!” she whispered, her eyes pleading as she looked straight into Heather’s eyes. “I’ve been shot!”

  But Heather couldn’t move. She could only watch helplessly as Verna’s eyes closed and her head lolled to the side.

  Chapter 2

  The clock on her car’s dashboard read 3:42 as Heather drove through darkened streets toward Donut Delights. After her divorce from ex-husband Don six years ago, she had left New York City, which she’d never liked anyway, and returned to her roots in Hillside, Texas.

  With the money she’d received in the divorce settlement, she rented space in the building her shop now occupied, purchased equipment, and set up for business. It had always been her dream to own her own business, and having that dream become reality in her hometown was especially meaningful to her.

  Even though she was the owner of Donut Delights, with three employees, she worked every day, with only rare exceptions. She loved adapting some of her late grandmother’s recipes and turning them into reality in the form of gourmet donuts; she loved interacting with her customers; and she loved having something to do that made her feel productive. Made her feel like she was making her own corner of the world a little tastier and a little better.

  Not that she usually came to work before 4:00 in the morning. Being the owner did have some advantages, after all. But that morning, still lying in bed, she had suddenly realized she was wide awake. After trying to sleep for a few more minutes, she gave up. Glancing over to see the numerals on her digital clock glowing 3:12, she decided to go to work and threw back the covers.

  Maricela, her cousin, Angelica, and Jung, a Korean man, would already be at work. They arrived at 3 to begin preparations for serving the customers who would begin arriving as soon as the shop opened at 5. They made dough, baked or deep-fried donuts, prepared fillings, iced the tasty confections, and placed them all on display in glass counters.

  Maybe they can use some help this morning, Heather thought. Maybe I’ll make a new kind of donut. Take my mind off Verna and how she died.

  When Heather had checked her phone first thing that morning, there had been no message from Ryan with any updates. At 3:00 in the morning, she knew he’d either be very busy with work, or fast asleep. She’d call him later, if he didn’t call her first.

  With a smile, she pulled into her usual parking space in back of Donut Delights—the place where she’d first met Ryan, when he came to talk to her about the death of a former employee, Christa Fordyce. At first, she’d found him arrogant and rude. Later, as their relationship developed, she’d seen his much softer side—the side that still mourned the death of his wife, on some level. The side that made him own a cat instead of a pit bull or something.

  Heather entered her shop through the back door, directly into the kitchen. Maricela and Angelica turned to stare at her, their mouths open. “Why you here so early?” Angelica asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” she said, tossing her purse through the door of her office onto her desk.

  Her third employee, Jung, stuck his head out of the storeroom. “You’re the boss. You’re not supposed to be here early.”

  She shrugged. “Well, here I am, and ready to make a brand new donut.”

  “What’s it called?” Jung asked.

  “State Fair,” she said. “Deep-fried donut base, plenty of powdered sugar, and cotton candy on top.”

  “Wow, cotton candy. Where are we going to get cotton candy?”

  “You’ll see,” she said. “It’s actually not that hard to make.” She tied an apron around herself, twisted her long hair up under a hair net, and slipped on some thin, polyethylene gloves. “Who wants to help me?”

  ***

  The State Fair donuts were a huge hit. Even though the actual Texas State Fair was months away, anything deep-fried was guaranteed to be highly popular year round. Heather slipped a full tray of donuts into the glass case where the previous tray had been sold out and looked up to see Eva coming through the front door, her usual smile absent from her friendly, lined face.

  “Eva?” Heather asked.

  Eva tried to smile, but her lips wouldn’t cooperate. And were those tears filling her eyes?”

  “Eva, come on back here,” Heather said, putting an arm around the elderly woman’s shoulders and leading her around the counter into the prep area. “Let’s go in my office.”

  Eva allowed herself to be led to a chair. Heather tried to offer her the desk chair, but Eva insisted on taking the smaller, slightly less comfortable visitor’s chair.

  “What’s the matter, Eva?” Heather asked, leaning towards her regular customer.

  “Did you hear about Verna Dixon?” Eva asked.

  “Yes, I did,” Heather said. “I heard last night. Did you know her well?”

  “Very well,” Eva said. “We were BFF’s, as the young people say nowadays.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Heather murmured.

  “I just can’t believe it! Why would anybody want to shoot Verna?”

  “I don’t have any idea,” Heather said. “I’d met her a few times, but I didn’t know her very well.”

  Eva’s voice became firm. “I can tell you that she was just as sweet as she seemed to be,” she said. “Volunteered at the hospital and the local hospice organization. Never had an unkind word for anybody.”

  Heather nodded, not sure what else to say. But Eva continued.
“I’m here for a reason this morning,” she said in that same determined voice. “And it’s not just for your wonderful donuts. I need to ask you a favor.”

  “What can I do for you?” Heather asked.

  “I want you to figure out who killed Verna,” Eva said flatly.

  “What? Me? Why?”

  “You’re a smart, capable young woman. You investigated your former assistant’s murder and the murder of the man who owned that other donut shop.”

  “Whoa,” Heather said, holding up a hand in a ‘stop’ signal. “I didn’t really investigate. The police did that.”

  “You helped,” Eva said. “You can be modest all you like, but it’s true. Plus, you have an ‘in’ with the police through your boyfriend. You can help.”