Chocolate Frosted Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 5 Read online

  Heather glanced from her to Angelica, who sat with the same hopeful look on her face. How could she say no? “Okay,” she sighed. “But I can’t leave the shop right now. It’ll have to be after work.”

  “I work for you,” Angelica said. “In your place.”

  “Angelica, I don’t think—are you sure you’re ready?” Heather asked.

  “I just be in kitchen. I not have to talk to customers. I be fine.”

  There went her last reason to say no. “Then let’s go,” Heather said to Maricela.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, Heather and Maricela stood in Hillside Park, three feet from a bench that faced the parking lot. “Right about here,” Maricela said quietly.

  Heather said nothing. If this was, indeed, the exact spot where Gustavo had died, it was a sacred place and worthy of reverence.

  Glancing around her, Heather saw that the art gallery from which Gustavo had picked up Tia Teresa’s painting was only about a block away from the other side of the small parking lot. It made sense that Gustavo would have parked here if he was unable to find a parking spot along the street in front of the gallery.

  The grass at Heather’s feet looked like it had recently been disturbed, with broken or bent blades pointing every which way, and one large, roughly oval-shaped spot where there was no grass, but only dirt.

  At least there was no blood, Heather thought, and she was thankful that Maricela had been spared that. She glanced again at the bare spot and wondered if some city employee had removed the grass and maybe even some of the dirt from that area because it was bloodstained. She supposed they’d have to do that. Couldn’t just leave bloodstains lying around where children played.

  “Yes, I think it was right here,” Heather said.

  Maricela didn’t question her as to how she knew, but simply nodded.

  “So apparently the shooter’s girlfriend was sitting here on this bench,” Heather said aloud, trying to put everything they knew together. “He claims he went back to his car for his cell phone.” She glanced up at the parking lot. “I suppose that could make sense. She might have just sat down because she didn’t want to go get the phone with him.”

  Heather paused, trying to figure out what was bothering her.

  “Gustavo’s car was parked right there,” Maricela said, pointing to a spot almost directly in front of the bench.

  “Okay,” Heather said slowly, as thoughts began to crystallize in her mind. “So even if the shooter’s car was parked at the farthest point in the lot, it wouldn’t have been more than 40 yards from Gustavo’s car. This is the smaller parking lot. You sit on the bench for a minute, okay?”

  Obediently, Maricela sat down on the bench. “I’m going to walk across the parking lot, as if my car was parked over there,” Heather said, pointing. “Do you have a second hand on your watch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you time me. Are you ready?”

  “Ready,” Maricela said.

  Heather left the bench and headed toward the farthest spot in the parking lot. When she got there, she hesitated, imagining herself unlocking a car, reaching in for a cell phone, locking the car back up, and turning around. She walked back to where Maricela sat waiting.

  “How long was that?” she asked.

  “49 seconds,” Maricela answered.

  “49 seconds,” Heather repeated. “Hmm.”

  “What?” Maricela asked.

  “Even if we believe the shooter’s story,” Heather said, “which we don’t, I think we can safely assume that Gustavo wouldn’t have been talking to the girlfriend before the shooter walked back to his car. So, 49 seconds. If we give his story the widest possible latitude time-wise, and we assume that the minute he walked away from his girlfriend, Gustavo walked toward her, Gustavo wouldn’t have reached this bench until about 5 seconds into the whole deal.”

  “So?” Maricela asked, puzzled.

  “So that leaves 44 seconds for Gustavo to begin harassing the girlfriend. But if we take into account that on his return trip, Mr. Johnson would have been looking right at the two of them and seen that something was wrong, we know that he would have begun to walk faster. Maybe he would have even run. So again, let’s give his story the benefit of the doubt, and let’s say that the minute he grabbed his cell phone and started back, he realized that something was wrong. Time me again, would you? I’m going to walk over to where his car might have been parked, then run back.”

  “Go ahead,” Maricela said.

  Heather crossed the lot to the farthest parking spot, turned, and faced Maricela. “Go!” she called out, and began to jog at a quick pace back toward the bench.

  “11 seconds,” Maricela said.

  “Which is a lot less than the 20 or so it would have taken him to walk to the car. So subtract 9 seconds from 44, and you get 35. Okay. 24 seconds or so for Gustavo to start harassing her so badly that Johnson started to run back from the car instead of walk. But if his car was parked even halfway through the parking lot, instead of completely on the other side of the parking lot, that leaves almost no time for Gustavo to have done or said anything to the girl that would have looked to the boyfriend like a problem.”

  Heather dug her cell phone out of her purse and punched in a text to Ryan. Where was the shooter’s car parked?

  “I texted Ryan and asked him where the shooter’s car was parked,” Heather said. “Hopefully, he’s not busy, and he’ll—”

  Her phone pinged with an incoming text. Heather read it. By the trashcan.

  “ ‘By the trashcan,’ he says,” Heather said, as both she and Maricela glanced toward the parking lot.

  The large, green metal trashcan was located 2/3 of the way toward the exit.

  Heather shook her head. “That leaves 10 or 15 seconds for Gustavo to start harassing this girl,” she said. “That doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t sound like he was like that.”

  “He wasn’t like that,” Maricela said emphatically. “He was kind. Sweet. Gentle.”

  “So the guy’s lying,” Heather said. “But why?”

  “Because he killed him,” Maricela answered.

  “Yes, but why did he kill him? He must have had some motive. And if it wasn’t because Gustavo was harassing his girlfriend and then pulled a gun on him, what could it have been?”

  “It was nothing,” Maricela said, standing up. For the first time that day, the look on her face held hope. “Because he didn’t do it. Any of it. Didn’t harass that girl, and didn’t pull a gun on anybody.”

  “Wait a minute,” Heather said, sudden excitement shooting a jolt of adrenaline through her veins. “Wait just a minute.”

  “What is it?” Maricela asked.

  “You said a gun was found on him,” Heather said, and Maricela nodded. “And Ryan said a gun was found on him.”

  Maricela frowned, obviously not sure what Heather was getting at.

  “Don’t you see?” Heather asked, her words tumbling over one another. “If the gun was found on him, then—wait a minute, let me find out what that means.” She jabbed her finger at her phone, sending another text to Ryan. Where was Gustavo’s gun found?

  “Does it matter?” Maricela asked.

  “It matters a lot,” Heather said. “This is huge. This is everything.”

  Ping. Heather read the message. Six inches from his right hand.

  Heather dropped her head and sighed, deflated. “The gun was found six inches from his right hand,” she said. “I’m sorry. I thought if the gun was found on him, then that absolutely contradicted the shooter’s story about Gustavo having pulled a gun on him. Because then why would he have put the gun back in his pocket before he died?”

  “Heather?” Maricela said.

  But Heather didn’t hear her. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I thought that where the gun was found might have meant something. Might have been a clue.”

  “It is a clue,” Maricela said.

  “What do you mean?”


  “You said the gun was found 6 inches from Gustavo’s right hand?”

  “Well, yes,” Heather said.

  “That’s why it’s a clue,” Maricela said. “Gustavo was left-handed.”

  Chapter 6

  “Hi, beautiful. What are you doing right now?”

  Heather smiled at Ryan’s greeting. “Right now? Nothing, I guess. Just watching TV.”

  “I’ve got a better offer,” Ryan said. “Can you be ready in 10 minutes?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “It’s a surprise. Are you at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “See you in 10 minutes,” he said. And hung up.

  Well, all righty, then. Heather swung her legs off the coffee table and sat up. She better get moving. But…get ready for what?

  She glanced down at the blouse and slacks she was wearing. They would do, she supposed. On second thought….

  Heather dashed down the hallway to her bedroom. She shucked her khakis, threw them toward the hamper (she missed), then grabbed a skirt off its hanger. She loved long, flowing skirts. They looked nice, they fit her sense of style, and best of all, and they were uber-comfortable.

  Exchanging her flats for sandals, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, grabbed her comb from the basket beneath the vanity, and carefully pulled it through her hair so that her long curls wouldn’t frizz. When she finished, she selected a barrette from the same basket and used it to clasp her hair back at the nape of her neck.

  There. She was ready. For indoor, outdoor, casual, or slightly dressy. Not bad for—she glanced at the watch on her left wrist—7 minutes.

  She picked up her purse from the kitchen counter where she usually kept it, slung it over her shoulder, dropped her cell phone in, and stepped out onto the front porch, locking the door behind her. She had just sat down on the wooden porch swing when Ryan’s car pulled up in front of her house.

  Not wanting to make him get out, she started down the front walk. He got out anyway, met her on the sidewalk, walked with her to the car, opened the door for her, and waited for her to get in. He shut her door, then walked around the front of the car and got in on his own side.

  He leaned over for a quick kiss, and Heather was glad to oblige. “Where are we going?” she asked as he pulled the car away from the curb.

  “It’s a surprise,” Ryan said, glancing at her. “Sorry for the last-minute thing, but I just got it worked out right before I called you.”

  Got what worked out? She wanted to ask, but didn’t. If he wanted it to be a surprise, that was fine with her.

  “So how was your day?” Ryan asked as he drove.

  “Fine,” she said. “How was yours?”

  “Busy,” he said. “Until now.”

  “Did you get the message I left?”

  “Yes, I did,” he said. “Gustavo was left-handed. That makes things interesting, but unfortunately, it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “It doesn’t?” Heather asked, incredulous.

  “Unfortunately, no. It’s suspicious, I’ll grant you that. But any good defense attorney would say, ‘Well, he dropped the gun as he fell, and he just happened to fall in such a position that the gun was close to his right hand.’”

  “But you don’t believe that,” Heather said, hoping she was right.

  “I believe what the evidence shows,” Ryan said. “And right now, the evidence doesn’t prove anything.”

  “So you think he dropped the gun as he fell, and somehow, it just happened to fall 6 inches from his non-dominant hand?”

  “What you’re suggesting is that Marcus planted the gun,” Ryan said. “Am I right?”

  “Well, yes,” Heather said. “That’s the only possibility that makes sense.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “ ‘Why?’ Because he wanted to make it look like Gustavo pulled a gun on him.”

  “I mean, why did he kill Gustavo in the first place?”

  “That, I don’t know,” she said. “If he planted the gun, it was because he killed Gustavo, and he shouldn’t have. But what would motivate him to kill Gustavo in the first place?”

  “Answer that, and you’ve got this thing solved,” Ryan said.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes until Ryan turned the car onto a road that pretty much only led to one place. “We’re going to the lake?” Heather asked.

  “It’s a nice day out,” he said. “I brought a blanket and some snacks. I thought it could be kind of like a picnic.”

  “How sweet!” she exclaimed. “That’s a great idea.”

  “I was hoping you’d like it,” he said. “I would have done something bigger, but I couldn’t get away for very long. And I really wanted to spend time with you.”

  “This is big enough,” she said. “It’s a surprise, it’s romantic; what’s not to love about it?”

  Ryan grinned. He parked in a tiny parking lot near a small, concrete-floored pavilion that held two picnic tables. Instead of heading for the tables, he spread the blanket in the shade of a tree and set a plain, brown paper bag on top of it. “Now, you have to remember that I’m a cop,” he said as Heather took a seat.

  “I won’t forget that,” she said.

  “And you also have to remember that this was spur-of-the-moment. And that we get interrupted so many times when we’re together, I didn’t want to spend part of this precious time shopping.”

  “Okayyyy,” she said.

  Ryan sat down next to her. He opened the paper bag and drew out a package of Cheese Nips, a mini canister of Pringles potato chips, and two cans of Sprite. “I had to get this stuff from the vending machine at the station,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Heather couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I don’t mind at all,” she said. “You were sweet to think of this. Sweet to do this.”

  “Whew,” Ryan said, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow with an exaggerated gesture. “In that case, what will it be? Cheese Nips or Pringles?”

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, they got back in the car, and Ryan drove her home. “I enjoyed our date,” she said as they pulled up in front of her house. “Thanks.” She leaned over to kiss him.

  He returned her kiss, then reluctantly pulled away. “I have to go,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said. “Call me later?”

  “Don’t I always?” he said, smiling.

  Heather got out of the car, closed the door, and waved at him before she started up the walk to her front porch. He waited until she unlocked the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her before he pulled away.

  As she walked into the kitchen to deposit her purse on the counter, Dave met her, his whole rear end wagging along with his tail as he looked up at her. “Oh, nuts!” she exclaimed, slapping a hand to her forehead. “You need dog food.”

  Dave whined and pranced as if he had understood what she said.

  “Sorry, Dave,” Heather said, continuing on through the kitchen to the back door. “I have to go buy you some. But I don’t feel like going all the way to Kroger, and you probably don’t want to wait. I’ll go to the Quik-Mart on Bowen and see if they have a small bag. It won’t take long. I promise!”

  She slipped out the back door, got into her own car, which was parked in the driveway, and backed out into the street. She drove three blocks to the convenience store, parked, and went inside.

  “Hello,” the clerk called out in a disinterested voice as Heather hustled to the dog food aisle at the back of the store.

  “Hi,” Heather responded as she grabbed the only bag of kibble they had, at a whopping twice what she would have paid at Kroger. Oh, well, sometimes you paid for convenience.

  Heather approached the counter to pay, and it was then she looked at the cashier for the first time. The cashier had a dark smudge on her left cheekbone that looked like a bruise.

  Was that a bruise? Heather wondered, trying to look closer without getting caught staring. And as she scrutinized the in
jury, she realized that the cashier’s face looked familiar. Very familiar, in fact. Where had she seen it before?

  With a jolt, Heather realized that the cashier’s face was the one she’d seen pictured in the newspaper, right next to a picture of Marcus Johnson, the man who had killed Gustavo.

  It was obvious the cashier had recognized her somehow, too, because she turned her face away. Or maybe she just didn’t want Heather to see her bruise.

  “Your name’s Stella, isn’t it?” Heather asked.