Birthday Sprinkle Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 37 Read online

  “What’s the approximate time of death?” Ames asked.

  “Somewhere between 12 and 5 am in the morning,” Heather replied. “That’s the narrowest window they can provide without actually having the body to work with.”

  Amy shimmied her shoulders and leaned in.

  “We’re going from 10 pm. Two hours before the alleged timeframe,” Heather said, and gestured to the timestamp in the right bottom corner of the screen.

  A few minute zipped by. A woman opened the door next to Holland’s at 10:20 pm. Heather froze the frame. “That’s the woman in 1B,” she said, and scanned the list. “Holland’s next door neighbor. A woman by the name of Ursula Brown.”

  “Ursula was awake quite late,” Amy said, and narrowed her eyes at the bulky woman frozen beside her door. “What’s she doing?”

  “Let’s find out,” Heather said, and double tapped the mouse pad.

  Ursula shuffled out of her doorway, glanced up and down the short hall, then hurried past the staircase which led up to the second floor of the apartment building. She halted beside the mail cubbies and fiddle with her own.

  “Weird time to check the mail,” Amy said.

  “Weird is subjective. She’s old. Probably doesn’t get out a lot. A pensioner, perhaps. Maybe, she doesn’t have to stick to a time schedule,” Heather replied.

  Ursula turned and walked back toward her apartment. She halted at the base of the stairs for a moment, and turned her head to look up them.

  “What’s she doing?” Amy asked.

  “No idea.”

  Ursula stood there for another minute. Then she jumped as if she’d been goosed and rushed back into her apartment. The door to 1B slammed shut.

  “What on earth?” Amy asked.

  “There,” Heather said. “Someone’s coming down the stairs.”

  The shadow stretched in the dim lights which illuminated the grainy hallway. A man appeared, draped in a trench coat, long strands of hair curling around his pudgy face. He glanced over at 1B – or was it at Sebastian’s apartment, 1A – then walked to the mail cubbies himself.

  “Lots of people getting mail late at night.” Amy arched an eyebrow.

  “That is weird. Oh wait, look. There’s our vic.”

  Sebastian Holland – Ryan had sent over a couple identifying pictures with the list of apartments and names – bustled into view from the left side of the frame. Two dogs yapped on the ends of leashes, their barks silent on the screen.

  The newcomer from upstairs froze and glared at Sebastian.

  The superintendent, old and rather overweight himself, ignored the upstairs guy and strode to his front door.

  “Timestamp at 10:35 pm,” Heather said. “This might be our last view of the victim.”

  Sebastian took a long time rattling out his keys. He opened the front door, then disappeared inside. The dogs followed him in and the door shut a second later.

  Still, the stranger, the man from upstairs, hovered beside the boxes and stared at the door. At last, he turned and rifled through his mail. He slapped the tiny metal door shut on the cubby, then shuffled up the stairs with a wad of envelopes in his hand. He didn’t look back.

  “Interesting,” Heather said. “It could be nothing. But it could be something.”

  “Now, we just have to figure out who he is,” Ames said.

  “And go through the rest of this footage,” Heather replied. She paused the video again. “What’s say we pick up Lilly, head home, and have some hot chocolate to wash down all the investigating?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Ames replied.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll have to interview a few suspects. Tactfully, of course.”

  “Of course,” Amy said. “Wouldn’t do it any other way.” Her tone was highly skeptical.

  Chapter 4

  Amy shuddered and shook off her puffy coat in the lobby of the Fierro building – renamed after the owner upon purchase ten years ago. Heather had done her research on the place.

  “Apparently,” Heather said, and pointed to the frayed carpet on the staircase, and the chipped end of the wooden rail, “Mr. Fierro planned on creating a pensioner’s paradise here. This place looked awesome a couple years ago.”

  “So, what happened?” Ames asked and glanced back at the cracked, thick glass of the front door. She’d hated walking past the cemetery, as usual.

  “I can’t be certain,” Heather replied. “But I’m pretty sure our missing victim had something to do with it.”

  “Because he was such a terrible caretaker?” Amy asked. “That’s a bit harsh. I mean, there’s only so much a guy can take care of without the input of the owner, am I right?”

  Heather shrugged and unzipped her coat, too. The lobby was strangely humid, for all the blustery weather in the street outside. “Let’s have a chat with Miss Brown, shall we?”

  They creaked their way over wooden boards and a worn patch of carpet, then halted in front of number 1B. The door to 1A had been secured with a special seal to prevent tampering.

  Heather rapped her knuckles on the door.

  They waited. Silence prevailed, apart from the distant sound of a TV set blaring within the apartment.

  “Maybe she’s not home?” Amy suggested.

  “Not home but left her TV set on?” Heather knocked again, much louder this time. “Miss Brown? Miss Ursula Brown? Are you in there?”

  A distant bump rang out, followed by swift footsteps. “Who’s there? Speak up!”

  Uh oh – another witness with a hearing issue.

  “Miss Ursula Brown? This is Heather Shepherd. I’m investigating a murder,” she yelled.

  Amy stuck her pinky finger in her right ear and wiggled it around. “Sheesh.”

  “Oh relax,” Heather whispered.

  A latch scraped back and the door creaked open a second later. Ursula Brown’s waxy face appeared. Two beady brown eyes stared out at them from folds of fat. She reminded heather of a pug, except less cute.

  “Heather Shepherd,” the woman said, and her features lit up bright as a summer’s day.

  “That’s right, ma’am,” Heather said.

  “You’re the owner of that delightful donut store downtown.” Ursula swung the door wider and the warm scent of apple and cinnamon washed out over them.

  Ursula might not be as cute as a pug, but she had a sweet atmosphere. A wholesome feel that didn’t fit with the humidity in the lobby and the damp in the corner.

  “That’s right. Donut Delights,” Heather replied, and swept her arms wide. “You’re familiar with the store?”

  “Familiar,” Ursula said, and chuckled. “I order from there constantly. The donuts are wonderful. This week’s in particular.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” Heather replied.

  Ursula licked her fat lips and stuck her head out of the doorway. “But I suppose you’re not just hear to talk about donuts are you?” The TV blared on in the background. “I know you’re one of those private investigators too.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which means you’re here about that awful business next door,” Ursula said, and grimaced. She patted down the sparse wisps of dark hair on her forehead.

  “Right again.”

  “How may I help dear? Anything to get it all sorted out so we can go back to peace and quiet again.” Ursula sighed and clasped her doughy hands in front of her ample chest. “My heart can’t take the stress.”

  “Let’s make this as stress free as possible.” Heather handed Ames her bag, and drew out her tablet in one fluid motion. She unlocked the screen – she’d already left the Evernote app open – then typed out Ursula’s name in bold letters.

  “Oh my,” Ursula whispered. “How professional.”

  “Miss Brown, please walk us through the events of Sunday evening after 10 pm,” Heather said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” Ursula replied, and screwed up her wrinkly brow. “I usually get my mail at around that time.”


  “Why that time?” Amy asked. She glanced at Heather then at the witness. “Sorry, I – uh, I’m Heather’s protégé.”

  “Oh no problem, dear. I fetch it that time because my next show comes on at around 10:45 pm. I stay up late to watch everything I can. When I was a kid, we didn’t get to watch that much TV.”

  “So you’re a big fan of Cable Television,” Heather said.

  “Oh yes,” Ursula replied.

  “What time did you go to bed on Sunday night?”

  “Oh I fell asleep during an ad break. Probably around 12 am. I can’t be certain,” Ursula replied. “I hardly ever check the time before I drop off.”

  “And you didn’t hear any strange noises that night? No glass breaking or a loud bang, perhaps?” Heather asked.

  “Nope,” Ursula replied. “I did tell that detective the same thing, but he seemed quite vacant during the interview.”

  A telltale sign Hoskins had conducted said interview.

  “I heard the doggies barking just after I’d fetched my mail, but they were out in the hall. I think that was when Sebastian arrived home,” Ursula said, and her chin wobbled. “Oh heavens, poor Sebastian.”

  Heather typed out the notes.

  “Did you see or hear anything suspicious?” Amy asked. “Any visitors which Sebastian had which were unfamiliar to you?”

  “Hmm.” Ursula patted the wispy hairs again. “Actually, yes. There was one person I didn’t recognize. A young woman.”

  “Could this woman have been his girlfriend?” Heather asked.

  “Oh no, no, no. Sebastian was much too old for her. He could’ve been her father,” Ursula replied, in syrupy tones. “And the man was fairly bad tempered. He had a soft spot for me because I never complained about the yapping dogs next door. Such sweet animals. Noisy, but sweet.”

  “This woman, what did she look like?” Heather asked. She typed out ‘mystery woman’ in caps.

  “Oh short hair, blue-black almost. I remember because I thought she was one of those goths. You know, those ones with the spiked collars?” Ursula pursed her lips to display what she thought of that. “But she didn’t have a collar or any make up on. She came around here twice, that I saw.”

  “When?”

  “Once about a month ago, and then, hmmm, once this past Sunday afternoon,” Ursula replied. Her beady eyes widened. “Oh dear, you don’t think she could be the –”

  “We’re not jumping to any conclusions, ma’am,” Heather said, and offered her best customer smile. “But we’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

  “Of course. No problem at all,” Ursula said, and waved them off. “You be safe out there, Mrs. Shepherd. Hillside would be a bleak town without your donuts.”

  The words were kind, but they sat in the back of Heather’s mind like a threat.

  Chapter 5

  The front door to 1B swung shut with a click, and Ursula’s heavy footsteps traipsed away, disappearing toward the blare of her TV somewhere within the apartment.

  “Not bad,” Amy said. “That’s a lead.”

  “You’ve been studying,” Heather stated.

  “I might have enrolled in a course.” Amy’s cheeks colored. “We did discuss it, remember? And it’s only so I can help you out on these cases. If you’re not comfortable, I can –”

  “Ames, relax. Of course I’m comfortable with it,” Heather said, and patted her on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s head back to the store.”

  They turned and strolled toward the exit, but movement on the stairs stalled Heather’s steps. A shadow flickered across the wall on the landing – beige and gloomy as the rest of the apartment building.

  Amy stopped too and trained her gaze on the landing. She narrowed her eyes to slits and fumbled her jacket around in her arms.

  A figure appeared at the head of the stairs. The man, it had to be a man at that height, didn’t walk toward them.

  “Hi there,” Heather said.

  Amy hissed a non-verbal complaint. No doubt, creepy dudes on stairs freaked her out as much as graveyards, if not more.

  “Hello.” His voice was deep. The scrabble of too little coffee and an early morning. “Who are you?”

  He stomped down the stairs and the light at his back moved off. The rays which pierced the cracked glass of the front door danced up the front of his trench coat and illuminated the five day old stubble on his jaw.

  This was the same guy they’d seen staring at Sebastian Holland on the night of the murder. He’d come to fetch his mail, shortly after Ursula Brown.

  “Kev,” he said.

  “Kevin who?” Heather asked.

  “Nope. Just Kev. Who are you?” He tucked long, blond hair behind either ear. He had to be in his early twenties, but he didn’t dress like it. What on earth was underneath that trench coat?

  Ames slipped on her coat and flicked the lapels.

  “I’m Heather Shepherd. This is Amy Givens. I’m here in conjunction with the Hillside Police Department investigating the murder of Mr. Sebastian Holland,” Heather said. “Were you familiar with him?”

  Kev stomped down the stairs and over to his mail cubby. He opened the one labelled 2E. Heather made a mental note of it and adjusted her grip on her tote bag, the tablet already inside.

  “Guess so,” Kev said.

  Heather chewed her bottom lip. “Mr. – uh?”

  “Just Kev.” He turned back to them, empty handed, and slapped the mail cubby door shut.

  “Right, Kev. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? In private?” Heather doled out another of her bright customer smiles.

  Kev’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah, I guess. This way.” He trooped past them and up the stairs, then took a sharp left.

  Ames and Heather exchanged a glance. “Why do I feel like some ominous CSI music should be playing right now?” Amy whispered.

  “Paranoia,” Heather replied, and followed the ever mysterious Kev to the second floor.

  He waited for them down an equally gloomy hall, lit only by the open, dust-coated window at the far end. Here, the humidity disappeared, and chill crept toward them.

  “In here,” Kev said, and disappeared into 2E.

  Amy muttered under her breath. Heather led the way into the apartment.

  A single damp patch dripped above the door. Water trailed down the wall and into the midst of a collection of fishing poles, which lay haphazard against the top of a tackle box.

  “You’re a fisherman, Mr. Kev?” Heather asked.

  “Just Kev. And yeah, I dabble. Better than hanging round here all day,” he replied, and shuffled toward the counter in his living room-kitchen combo.

  “What’s wrong with here?” Amy asked.

  “What’s not wrong with here is a better question,” Kev replied. “Everything’s broken. Dripping. Damp. I can’t stand it. Makes my chest go crazy. Sinuses too.” He sneezed into the sleeve of his trench coat to illustrate the point.

  Heather strode up to the counter and stood beside him. She studied the man from head to toe, but kept her gaze impassive.

  “If it’s not the dripping, the crumbling and all of that, it’s those darn dogs downstairs,” Kev said, and shuddered. He grabbed a glass from the sink, then filled it with water. He chugged it back.

  The sleeve of his trench coat tugged back and exposed a thin red line.

  “Is that a scratch mark?” Heather asked, and pointed at it.

  Kev slapped down the glass on the countertop. “Oh yeah. That’s from Miss Brown’s cat. I feed it sometimes when it wonders upstairs, but for some reason it was spooked last night. I figured it was because of those dogs.”

  “All the barking?” Heather asked.

  “Yeah. I saw Sebastian come in with them at the usual time. Oh say, past 10 pm? Dogs were with him. Must’ve freaked out the cat. Surprised the poor thing can hear anything at all. Ursula puts her TV set on so loud.” Kev rolled his eyes.

  “Another thing you don’t like,” Amy repl
ied.

  “Exactly. So yeah, I go fishing from time to time. Went out a few days ago, actually. Just never put the stuff back in the cupboard.” Kev stroked his sweat-free forehead and glanced around his living room.

  He’s squished a two-seated up against the wall, opposite a flat screen TV. The curtains were drawn and devoid of pattern, and the place did smell of damp.

  “Did you speak with Sebastian often?”

  “Sure,” Kev said. “As often as he’d give me the time of day. Which wasn’t as often as it could’ve been.”

  “Did you hear anything on the night of the murder?”

  “Murder, gosh. How do you guys know it’s that? I heard his body is missing,” Kev replied. “Gossip mill in Hillside says that, though. Can’t trust how accurate it is.”

  “There’s enough evidence to suggest it’s murder,” Heather said. “Where were you that night?” Though Ryan had floated the concept of Mr. Holland staging his own death. There just wasn’t enough incentive for that.

  “Up here. I watched a little TV then went to bed. Had to wake up early, you know. Got all this nothing to do.”

  “You don’t work?”

  “Nope. I was in a freak accident a couple years ago and have been rendered unfit for work. So, I get checks and I spend my time fishing,” Kev said. “It’s fun. You should try it sometime.” That was delivered in a monotone.

  Kev looked able-bodied, but who was Heather to judge? Certainly not a doctor. “And you didn’t see anything suspicious around here?”

  “Not really. Just the usual dripping walls and barking dogs.” Kev forced a smile.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. – uh, Kev.” Heather smiled back, equally forced. “We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”

  “I’ll be here,” he replied. “Haven’t got anywhere else to go.”

  Chapter 6

  Heather swiveled from side to side in her leather chair in the office of Donut Delights. Her gaze flicked from the brown dossier on her desk, to the donut orders on the laptop screen.

  “We still need to implement a proper filing system,” Amy said, and lifted a lever arch file. “I can’t take much more of this.”