Fatally Frosted (2 page)

Marge Rankin had inherited a great deal of money from her father when he’d passed away a few years earlier. Rumors around town put her net worth at two million dollars on the conservative side, and all the way up to ten million on those hot summer days when no one had anything else to talk about. It was impossible to tell that Marge had money by the way she dressed, though; she bought her clothes from Gabby Williams’s shop next door to the converted train depot that now housed my donut shop. ReNEWed was a clothing store that offered some of the best recycled clothing in our part of North Carolina, and Marge wasn’t afraid who knew she shopped for her apparel secondhand.

“It just has to be perfect,” Marge said, wringing her hands together with such force they were white. “I’ve dreamed about this kitchen for twenty years, and I can hardly believe I finally have it. I want everyone to know it, too.”

I’d had the grand tour of her remodeled place the day before, and she had every right to be proud. From
the Viking stove to the deluxe six-burner industrial cooktop, the lustrous marble countertops to the elegant hardwood floors, it was truly a thing of beauty.

“It’s going to be the star of the show,” I said. “Everyone will be talking about it when we’re through.”

Marge smiled. “I certainly hope so. Thanks again for making donuts for me.”

The underlying theme of the exhibition was Working Kitchens, and everyone with a stop on the tour had hired a professional chef to show off their creations. I was the lone demonstrator who hadn’t gone to culinary school, and I was beginning to feel the pinging of my nerves, something I couldn’t let Marge see.

I tried to match her smile as I said, “Are you kidding? How often do I get the chance to work in such elegant surroundings? I’m looking forward to it.”

She looked around the shop, then frowned softly. “I think your place is quaint. Who doesn’t love an old train depot?”

I glanced at the painted burgundy floor, the large windows overlooking Springs Drive from one view and the abandoned railroad tracks from the other, and saw Donut Hearts in a different light. Sometimes I took it for granted, but it really was a welcoming place to spend my days, even if they did begin at one-thirty in the morning and end a little after noon.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I’m a huge fan of my shop. After all, it’s named after me, isn’t it?”

Marge nodded. “That was so clever, adding an E to your last name. Hart for Heart, it’s perfect.”

“I like it,” I admitted. “Now, don’t you have a thousand things to do to get ready for tomorrow? Do you
have the list of ingredients I asked you to get for me?” Marge had insisted on supplying everything I’d need for the day’s donut making, and I hadn’t fought her on it. After all, it freed me to try some things that I’d only read about in books before, and I wasn’t going to scrimp or substitute on second-class ingredients.

“I’ve got three of everything you requested, so we’ll be fine. I
do
have to see about the china, though. I’d better go check to see if it’s arrived at the house yet.”

As she started for the door, Marge hesitated, then asked, “Have I thanked you recently for doing this for me?”

“Just a thousand times,” I said with a grin. “Just remember to relax and have fun with it. Our stop is going to be the talk of the town. Now shoo.”

After she left, my assistant, Emma Blake, came out of the kitchen. Emma was a pretty young woman nearly out of her teens, with a cute figure and flaming red hair. She’d been working for me a few years, saving to go away to college someday and taking classes at the community college at night. Selfishly, I hoped it wasn’t any time soon. I’d grown to depend on her, and had learned to trust her with my life. In a two-woman operation, she was more important than my flour supplier and all of my regular customers combined.

Emma looked around the room, as if not trusting her eyes, as she asked, “Is she finally gone?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like Marge Rankin,” I said. “She’s got to be the gentlest woman in the world.”

Emma bit her lower lip, then said, “Honestly, I’m just tired of having her hover around the shop all of the time.”

“Don’t worry, it’s almost over. She’s understandably just a little nervous about everyone in town parading through her place.”

My assistant frowned at me. “You showed me pictures of her kitchen. What on earth does she have to worry about? It’s absolutely perfect.”

I shrugged. “Maybe so, but I know she’s not going to sleep a wink until the debut tomorrow.”

Emma sighed. “I wish I had her problems.”

“I’m not sure you should,” I said. “Just because she’s wealthy doesn’t mean she’s got it made.” It was time to change the subject, so I asked her, “Is everything set here for tomorrow? Do you have any lastminute questions?”

That earned me a frown from her. “Suzanne, I told you, I can handle the donut shop. Mom’s coming in to help me, so we’ll be fine. Don’t worry, your place is in good hands.”

I clearly surprised her by hugging her. “I know it is. I trust you completely.” Though I made donuts alone once a week on Emma’s day off, she’d never had to make them without me. But she’d been working for me for two years, and I’d taught her everything I’d learned since I’d bought the place. Donut Hearts had been my personal emancipation proclamation, bought with my settlement from the divorce from my cheating husband Max. Max was out of my life, though he still lived in town, and was constantly trying to get back into my heart.

Emma said, “I need to get back to those dishes.”

A few minutes after she disappeared in back, a nice-looking man in his thirties came into the shop,
and I had to keep myself from openly staring at him. It wasn’t just because he had a full head of lustrous blond hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen in my life. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t place him for the life of me.

“May I help you?”

“I’d like two black coffees to go,” he said.

“Can I get you any donuts to go with them?”

He grinned at me as if I’d just said something amusing, then shook his head. “No, just the coffee, please.”

As I filled two cups for him, I wanted to start a conversation, but I couldn’t think of a thing in the world to say. When I glanced back at him over my shoulder, I saw him smiling at me, as if he knew something I didn’t.

I told him how much he owed me, and as he paid for the coffee, he said, “I’ll see you the same time tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here,” I blurted out. Honestly, it was as though I’d never seen a nice-looking man in my shop before. Why was I suddenly acting like a girl in junior high school?

“More’s the pity,” he said, and then left.

Now what on earth had that been about?

The front door chimed ten minutes later, and I looked up to see who was coming into the shop three minutes before we were set to close.

I gritted my teeth the second I saw that it was Peg Masterson—the organizer of the kitchen tour—a woman with an amplified, nasal voice that could make a marble statue run away screaming. I knew
her clothes were at best second-hand from Gabby’s shop, but she still made me self-conscious about my blue jeans and T-shirt.

“Suzanne, I need a word with you,” she said as she tapped her clipboard with the back of her pen. Peg was a short woman in her fifties, nearly as wide as she was tall. Her figure must have been a challenge to clothe, but I wasn’t sure that justified the handmade creations she sometimes made for herself to wear. What might look good on a fashion model that was a size zero certainly didn’t seem to flatter her figure. She had black hair, and it was pretty clear to me that it wasn’t natural.

“Hello, Peg. Come by for a donut?”

She looked at them for a second with longing. “No, I’m afraid I’ve decided to cut back on my sweets intake. They play havoc with my figure, you know.”

“Not even a lemon-filled one?” I asked wickedly. They were Peg’s downfall, and she usually ordered them from me by the dozen.

She looked tempted to break her abstinence, and I felt ashamed for my little jab, so I was more than a little upset with myself when she said, “Oh, why not? What’s one going to hurt? You know, I’ve never been able to resist these little devils, even if I could stand to lose a pound or two.”

More like forty or fifty, I thought to myself, again rather unkindly. Peg just seemed to bring out the worst in me, and I wasn’t all that proud of it.

As she wolfed down the donut, I asked, “What can I do for you?”

She tapped the clipboard again. “I’m still not sure
about your exhibition. You assure me that it’s going to be keeping in tone with the rest of the tour, correct?”

Now that she was firing back at me, I wasn’t nearly as amused as I had been before. “Peg, I know you’re not thrilled that Marge asked me to demonstrate donuts, but you really shouldn’t be so narrow-minded. Donuts have been around since biblical times, they’ve been some of the favorite treats of presidents, and they’re eaten all over the world. You really should respect them for their contributions to the world’s happiness.”

She rolled her eyes, and I knew it was a lost cause. “What exactly are you making tomorrow? It’s the first day of the tour, and much will depend on how well it is received by the visitors who come tomorrow.”

“I’ve been thinking about starting with beignets. You’ll have to try one. They’re delicious.”

Peg frowned, then studied her clipboard again. “I have you down for donuts, which is fairly obvious since you own a donut shop. Why the change in offerings?” She added with a bite, “Unless simple donuts aren’t good enough for you.”

“A beignet
is
a donut, Peg,” I said, trying to keep my temper in check. I didn’t care what she thought of me, but if she was looking for an excuse to scratch Marge from the tour, I wasn’t going to be the one who provided it. I’d been surprised to learn that Peg had allowed her rival a spot on the kitchen tour at all, and I had hoped that she’d finally put her petty jealousies behind her.

Apparently, that hope had been in vain.

Peg stared at me over the clipboard. “Whatever. Don’t let all of us running the tour down, Suzanne.”

“My part of it will be perfect,” I said.

“Let’s hope so,” Peg said as she walked out the door, getting the last word in yet again.

I had one minute left before closing, but I couldn’t face the idea of Peg popping back inside with “one more thing.” I didn’t think I could greet her again without screaming. The shop was empty, so I flipped the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
and started to dead-bolt the door.

Then I saw Max, my good-looking—though less than loyal—ex-husband come running up the street toward my door.

I was in no mood to deal with him at the moment.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” I said, as I pointed to the sign.

As he tapped his watch, Max grinned at me with the same smile that used to melt my heart. “I’ve got two minutes. You don’t want to turn a hungry man away, do you?”

I thought about doing just that, but was it really worth having him complain all over April Springs that I’d locked him out on purpose?

I flipped the sign back and unlocked the door.

As he rushed in, I said, “Your watch is slow. You’ve got thirty seconds, and then I’m throwing you out.”

“I just need twenty,” he said.

“Donuts?”

“Seconds.” He surveyed what was left in the case behind the counter. I never keep donuts overnight. I either give them to the church for folks who could
use a treat, or I take them around the county to businesses who might like them enough to become regular customers. Today it was going to be a donation. I’d been working so hard at perfecting the beignets and some of the other donut recipe possibilities for the tour that I was in no mood to put on a smile and hand out donuts and business cards.

“I’ll take them all,” Max said.

“My, you are hungry,” I said as I started boxing up the three-and-a-half-odd dozen donuts left in the display.

“It’s for my theater troupe,” he said.

“What’s on tap this time? I have to admit that I enjoyed your rendition of
West Side Story
.” Max was a sometime-employed actor. He worked nationally just enough to get a commercial now and then so he could keep solvent, but his true love was directing. When he couldn’t get anyone to pay him to do it, he volunteered at the senior center and put on plays whose only common thread was the need for young actors. It had been a running joke around town until folks had seen
West Side Story
, and now everyone was looking forward to his latest offering.

Max leaned over and looked at me with those gorgeous brown eyes of his. As he ran his hand through his thick auburn hair, I knew he was too handsome for his own good, and yet I still felt a tug from his attention.

He whispered, “It’s still a secret, but I can trust you. We’re working on
Romeo and Juliet
.”

I laughed out loud at that one. “Variations on a theme, wouldn’t you say?”

“What can I say? They insisted, and I couldn’t
very well disagree, since they’re paying me for this production.”

“Max,” I said harshly, “you’re not taking advantage of the seniors, are you?”

He shook his head. “No way. They’re using some of the proceeds from the last show. You have no idea how much we took in.”

“I still think you should volunteer your time,” I said.

“Only if you promise to supply us with free donuts.”

He had me there. I couldn’t afford to give away my products on a daily basis any more than he could always donate his time and expertise.

Just to tweak him, though, I slid the boxes across the counter to him and said, “Done. Now give them back your salary.”

He frowned. “Suzanne, are you serious?”

“I am for today. I’ll give up the profit on these if you donate today’s salary back to the seniors.”

“I can do that,” Max said grudgingly.

I put a hand on the stack of boxes. “That’s what you say now, but how am I going to know that you’ll actually follow through on it?”

“Come with me if you don’t believe me,” he said. “You can see for yourself.”