Lemon Chiffon Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 8 Read online

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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.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 1

  The Hotel Saint James was positively opulent.

  It definitely wasn’t what Heather and Dave were accustomed to, a far cry from their beloved Donut Delights, but it already felt like a home away from home.

  “I can’t believe we’re here,” Heather said, sighing.

  “I know. At last. After all this time,” Ryan replied, squeezing her hand.

  Their engagement party was in full swing, set in the gorgeous dining room of their hotel. They sat on antique leather chairs and sofas, with a wall of books to their left and champagne on the quaint wooden table in front of them.

  The wedding was just a week away, and after months of planning, and the hope that Ryan’s schedule would finally clear up enough for them to go through with it, they were finally in France.

  They’d planned on having the wedding just before Christmas, but that had totally fallen through because of their busy schedule.

  Heather couldn’t stop smiling. She clinked the rim of her champagne glass against Ryan’s and they took a sip each.

  The low rumble of talk at the tables was a noise which warmed Heather from the inside out.

  Everyone who’d been invited had turned up for their mini-holiday. Amy and her date, Kent Bentley, as well as the news reporter Jane Duvall, who was an old friend. Eva hadn’t been able to make it after her recent accident, but Amy had sworn to record every detail and send it back to her and Soupy that very evening.

  “Who’s that?” Heather asked, pointing to a stranger sitting at the table opposite Amy’s, sipping champagne and talking amicably with a short, blonde woman.

  “That?” Ryan squinted at the guy for a second, then nodded. “Pretty sure that’s Bear Trapp.”

  “Wait a second,” Heather said, raising an eyebrow. “The Bear Trapp? As in Roger ‘Bear’ Trapp the paparazzo?”

  “The very same.”

  “What in heaven’s name is he doing at our engagement party?” Heather slurped a little more champagne – it was her party after all, she could relax for a change.

  “I have no idea,” Ryan replied, and scratched the back of his neck.

  They had picked up a lot of publicity lately. Hillside was relatively small, and Donut Delights was popular, Heather more so after solving a few crimes. News of their soiree had travelled through the town like wildfire.

  “I guess they have to sell newspapers, somehow,” Heather said, with a shrug.

  Dave shifted underneath the table and licked at her ankle, just above the silver strap of her low slung heel. “All right, Dave, just one more,” she said, then slipped an appetizer off her plate – a mini-croissant – and into his waiting mouth.

  Dave snuffled a bit because it wasn’t a donut, but gobbled it up anyway.

  “Greedy guts.” Heather nudged him with the toe of her shoe. She straightened and looked towards the entrance. Angelica was supposed to bring a selection of their newest donuts, prepared specifically for the engagement party and wedding, through for the guests.

  They’d spent a great deal of time discussing the invention of the perfect donut, and had come up with Lemon Chiffon cruller donuts. They were light, sweet and with a bit of a zing.

  Angelica had insisted they would suit Heather’s personality and the wedding as well.

  Clink, clink, clink.

  “May I have your attention, please?” Amy’s voice rang out.

  Heather turned to face her friend, who stood atop the spiraling dark metal staircase at the far end of the dining room.

  Amy beamed at her bestie and clinked the fork to the glass again. “Come on, guys, I didn’t clamber up these stairs in these heels for nothin.” She gestured to her black stilettos and the crowd of onlookers chuckled.

  “As you all know, we’re spending our time in this lovely hotel in gorgeous Paris, I mean Paris of all places, to celebrate with my best friend and belle of the ball, Heather Janke,” Amy said, and pointed with the silverware.

  A smattering of applause in the room, and then an easy quiet fell.

  “I think it’s past time I give my toast. I’ve known Heather since –”

  The doors at the far end of the hall slapped open. “Nobody move!” A man said, striding into their midst, wearing the crisp blue beret of the Parisian police force.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ryan asked, rising from his seat.

  Heather followed suit, and Dave barked a few threats at the cops.

  “Zis party is over,” the officer said, placing his hands on his hips. Several officers streamed in behind him and dispersed throughout the room.

  Amy was in a state of shock atop the stairs, she stumbled a few steps down, and her glass of champagne tipped sideways. A stream of golden liquid poured onto the top of the mean officer’s head.

  “Uh oh,” Heather whispered.

  The man reached up and snatched at his beret, then rung it out furiously with both hands.

  “We’d better handle this, and fast,” Ryan said.

  Heather nodded her agreement. They linked arms and walked to the front together, then stopped in front of French Officer Grumpy Pants.

  “Hello,” she said, and nerves tickled her stomach, “I’m Heather Janke, the bride, and this is Ryan Shepherd, my fiancé. How can we help you?”

  “Detective Piti Brodoteau,” the angry man replied, with the barest hint of a nod. “We are here to investigate a murder. Nobody moves. Especially not vous. Urk, you, Madame.”

  Questions filtered through Heather’s mind.

  “Who was murdered?” Ryan asked.

  “Ça me gonfle,” Brodoteau sighed his reply.

  “Pardon? I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.” Ryan’s jaw clenched as it did whenever he found someone totally insufferable.

  “He said we’re annoying him,” Heather said. She had a passing knowledge of the language, an infatuation that’d been born young.

  “Indeed, zis is annoying. Very much so. The woman who has died is Jane Duvall.”

  “No,” Heather whispered.

  “Oui,” Brodoteau replied. “And she dies, right after eating one of your horrible leetle donuts.”

  “That’s impossible. Angelica hasn’t brought the
donuts out of the kitchen yet.” Heather’s insides had turned to slush. Her engagement party was ruined, and she was a suspect?

  “Oui, it was in ze kitchen where she was dispatched upon. We ask that you take seats and keep down your noise during our investigation.” It was clear from Brodoteau’s moist forehead – the sweat and champagne mixed – and his heavy frown, that he had no intention of asking. Rather, he’d be commanding.

  “Very well,” Heather said. “But please make this swift. We’ve got guests.”

  One less than they’d had half an hour ago.

  Chapter 2

  Heather sat in the white wrought iron chair, in the gardens of the Saint James Hotel. It was past 9pm, but none of the guests could sleep, and no small wonder. The news of the murder of Jane Duvall had spread through the hotel like donuts at a cop convention.

  Ryan had gone to bed early, but Amy and Angelica had stayed up with her to talk about it.

  “Are you okay?” Heather asked, leaning forward in her chair and examining her longtime assistant by the glow of quaint lanterns along the pathway nearby.

  “I don’t know,” Angelica replied, and rubbed her eyes. “It all happened so quickly. I was in the kitchen and ready to take out the donuts, when Jane came in and asked to taste.”

  “She insisted on it?”

  “Yes, she was desperate to eat. I not understand why,” Angelica said, and wrung her hands. “She took one, and then… and then –”

  “It’s all right,” Amy said, reaching over to pat the distressed young woman on the arm. “You don’t have to say anymore.”

  “Puzzling,” Heather whispered, then cleared her throat. “That’s a true puzzler. Why on Earth would Jane be out of the dining room, which was full of food, and set on eating a donut in the kitchen?”

  “You’re right,” Amy said, “that is suspicious.”

  Heather considered for a few moments, shifting left and right, then stopped. “Angelica, did you notice anything suspicious when you made the donuts last night?”

  “No, well, actually, yes. I make donut icing and then hear this noise, like someone there?”

  Heather scooted forward on her chair, narrowing her eyes. “And then?”

  “When I go look, there is nothing. Except there is a cigarette on the floor, crushed.”

  “A crushed cigarette,” Amy whispered.

  “So, the killer is a smoker. Hmmmm,” Heather tapped her chin. “Is there anything else? Did you notice any other strange behavior?”

  Angelica shook her head, mute and pale as a sheet.

  “Perhaps you should go on up to bed, Ang. You’ve had a rough day,” Heather smiled at her. “Hey, you can take Dave with you to keep you company. You know how much he loves the attention.”

  Dave perked up at the mention of his name and yapped. Angelica finally cracked a smile.

  “Thank you, Heather. I will,” she said, she squared her shoulders, then clapped her hands at Dave. “Come sweet doggie, I have donut in the room.”

  Dave practically leapt into Angelica’s arms.

  They hurried off together, Ang cooing sweet nothings to the dog.

  Heather didn’t bother stopping it. Dave’s donut addiction was incurable. She only allowed him one every month, and the rations had helped reduce his belly wobble, if not his cheeky attitude.

  Amy excused herself and went to get them a couple coffees, to shake off the sleep. Already, her friend had guessed that Heather wouldn’t take the death of one of her wedding guests lying down.

  Or standing up, or any other way.

  Heather Janke would get to the bottom of the mystery before that snotty Piti Brodoteau did.

  Amy returned a few moments later, carrying two dainty porcelain cups.

  “A cappuccino for you and a cappuccino for me,” Amy announced, and handed over the beverage. “Courtesy of the mean manager guy.”

  “Maître d’hôtel,” Heather corrected, for the heck of it. “When in France, do as the French, I guess.”

  “In that case, I shall become a mean, horrible mustachioed man with beady eyes and a faint odor of cheese for cologne.”

  “That was mean,” Heather said, the corners of her lips twitching in spite of their situation.

  “So is he! Half lectured me about drinking coffee at this time of night. Something about the hazards of too much caffeine in the system,” Amy said, “I don’t know, I blocked it out after a while.”

  “Maybe he has a crush on you.”

  “Blegh, perish the thought. This hotel does make a good cuppa Joe, though,” Amy said, and slurped down the coffee. “So what’s the deal, investigator Heather? What’s your take on this?”

  “I’m struggling with this one. First of all, why was Jane desperate for a donut? It seems to me like she was forced to go after one for some unknown reason.”

  “Right? Why would she do that? And who would have the power to make her eat one?” Amy finished the last of her cappuccino and placed it on the low table between them. “What about the cigarette?”

  “I suppose we can’t really assume that the killer was spying on Angelica,” Heather replied, “but what other explanation could there be? After all, we don’t have another lead right now. The police confiscated all the donuts.”

  “Go figure.” Amy stuck out her tongue at the obvious cop-donut trope.

  “And who would even want to kill Jane in the first place? She wasn’t a bad person.”

  “She was an ex-beauty queen, though. She might’ve been vapid. Or conceited. People don’t like that.”

  “People also don’t kill for that. Not the normal ones anyway,” Heather replied. She glugged down her coffee and leaned back in the chair. “I really didn’t want this to happen right before my wedding. Ryan and I have been through enough.”

  “I know. You could just let the cops handle it,” Amy replied, but the twinkle in her eye said otherwise.

  “Over my frosted donut I will. They’ve already made it plain that they suspect Ang, and you and I both know she’d never do a thing like this.” Heather had learned her lesson about suspecting her trusted employees after Ken’s innocence had been proven.

  She stood slowly and nodded. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Chapter 3

  They had decided to take their breakfast – brioche and chocolate sauce – outside for once. The weather was lovely, a sunny, cloudless morning, and Dave frolicked in the garden, enjoying the atmosphere.

  For all Dave knew, this was just another holiday.

  Heather ate in silence, breaking off pieces of the rich, buttery bun and dipping it into the chocolate, then depositing it in her mouth. Sweetness spread across her tongue, the delicious flavor even an open murder case couldn’t dissipate.

  “You’re quiet,” Ryan said, and gulped down his second cup of coffee. Finesse was not his way, but she loved him for it. Gruff, sweet and protective Ryan. Her fiancé and soon-to-be husband if the morbid atmosphere ever lifted at Saint James.

  “We all are,” Kent said, and glanced at Amy. They hadn’t been dating very long, and she’d kept him secret until she was absolutely sure that she was ready to introduce him to Heather.

  “I believe we should stretch out legs, go for a walk through Paris, do a bit of exploring before this hotel and the crime suck us into their respective orbits,” Ryan said, pointing with a bit of bread. “What do you three say?”

  Heather had wanted to stick around and question a few suspects, but a day out might be a good idea.

  “A walk sounds like a dream,” Heather said, at last. Dave barked his agreement.

  Words Dave understood ranged from ‘walk’ to ‘donut’, and did not include ‘no’ or ‘for heaven’s sakes Dave, get off the sofa’.

  “Let’s finish up and then we can head out,” Ryan said. “Come on, it will be fun. The Arc De Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and the restaurants. I bet there are some amazing restaurants to explore in this city. After all, we didn’t come here to cry in our soups.�
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  Heather tried working up the enthusiasm for a trek through Paris. The previous afternoon, before Jane’s death, she would’ve been all for it.

  She looked up at the Saint James, whose style was more of a grand manor than a hotel, and wriggled her nose. Mysteries to be solved, that gene of hers had an itch to be scratched.

  “Earth to Heather,” Amy said, clicking her fingers under her nose. “You’re in mystery land again.” She smiled lightly and pushed her empty plate aside.

  “Sorry, I just realized I forgot something up in the room,” she said, standing quickly.

  “You want me to come with you?” Amy asked. They’d been sharing a room in the hotel, prior to the wedding.

  “No, no, that’s quite all right. I just want to get a coat real quick.” Heather squeezed Ryan’s hand once and tried to ignore the look of concern he shot at her. Everyone acted as if she was a fragile flower. It was strange.

  Perhaps they thought the pressure of being ‘the bride’ would get to her.

  She walked off at a leisurely pace, so they wouldn’t expect anything. She’d been itching to take a peek in the kitchen, and she had to do it as soon as possible.

  There had to be some clue around. Perhaps the cigarette butt Angelica had seen might still be there.

  Heather rushed passed the bar and dining area with its leopard print carpet, through the door which was surrounded by shelves of books, and down the hall.

  The kitchen was close by, and likely filled with chefs and waiters. She’d had to pay top dollar to get the hotel to allow Angelica and Heather to work on the Lemon Chiffon cruller donuts in the first place.

  She stepped lightly, slowing down at the sight of the dark wood doors which led into the kitchen.

  Heather bent and checked the floor outside the kitchen, squinting at any darkened corners.

  “What’s that?” She murmured.

  A tiny burn mark against the skirting, just big enough to have been made by a cigarette.

  Heather lowered herself to her hands and knees to get a closer look. She fingered the black burn mark on the dark wood skirting, humming under her breath.