Emma frowned. "What's happening to this town? First you see one of our customers dumped in front of the shop, and then some random idiot calls you and threatens you. Dad makes me carry pepper spray, and I've been giving him a hard time about being over-protective, but now I'm starting to think that he was right."
"It wasn't random at all," I said softly. "He told me that if I didn't butt out, I'd be sorry."
"Butt out of what?" she asked me.
I didn't want go into what had been happening, but we'd be working together all morning, and I couldn't see keeping any of it from her. Besides, by being near me, she was in danger herself, and Emma had a right to know what she was going up against.
"I'm trying to find out who killed Patrick Blaine myself," I said.
Emma smiled.
"What's so funny about that?" I asked.
"Dad said that's exactly what you would do, but I told him you were too levelheaded for that. So, what have you done so far?"
I looked outside, feeling exposed in the darkness. "Come on. We've got donuts to make," I said.
Emma wasn't about to give up that easily, though. "We can talk while we work. We do it every morning, don't we?"
I reluctantly agreed. "You clean the glaze left in the reservoir, and I'll make more to top it off." We don't make new glaze every morning, since it would be too wasteful to throw the old out and start fresh. Instead, we skim the top layer of collected grease--along with some of the water that has separated from the glaze overnight--dispose of that, then add new glaze to the mix when the reservoir gets too low. I added thirty-four pounds of powdered sugar to the big floor mixer, put in a gallon of water and some flavoring, tossed in some thickening agent, and then started the mixer. It wasn't a delicate operation, so I didn't have to set one of the four timers we had in the kitchen. I could turn it on and forget about it until I was ready to add it to the old glaze.
Emma had just finished stirring the remaining glaze together using a large loaf pan, which is how we apply the glaze to the donuts once they are fried. There's nothing sophisticated or even automated about our operation, but it is quick, and very effective. The poured glaze runs over the donuts, drops through the rack, and slides down a stainless steel incline back into the waiting pool.
"So, talk to me," Emma said.
"Let me measure out some ingredients first," I said.
I set up individual stations for our cake donut mixes and measured out the dry ingredients, water, and flavorings into neat little grids.
"Come on, give," Emma asked.
I was at a point where my total concentration wasn't required anymore. "After I found Patrick's body, I realized that the police weren't taking my
protection too seriously, so I decided to dig into this myself."
"You should ask George for help," Emma said.
"I don't want to put him at risk any more than I have to," I said, "but he's checking on things at police headquarters, so he can keep me informed if Chief Martin actually stumbles over a clue, even if it's just by accident."
"What does he think about all of this?"
"He's worried about me, but should that really surprise anybody? You know how overprotective he is," I said as I combined the ingredients in each individual mixing bowl by hand.
"But you're going to do it anyway, aren't you," Emma said.
"I am," I admitted. "Let me make these old-fashioned donuts first, and then we'll talk more about it."
I checked the grease temperature, and it was right at 300 degrees, which was exactly what I needed it to be. It was time to load up the dropper, a device that looked like a cross between a large steel teacup and a funnel. There was a spring-operated disk inside that dropped a perfect ring of batter into the oil every time, and cake donuts would be impossible for me to make without the nifty little device. I added the batter, then swung the dropper from side to side like a pendulum to force the batter to one end. I'd never dropped the tool yet, but if I did, it could do some serious damage to anyone unlucky enough to be standing nearby. There might be other ways to get the air bubbles out of the batter and force it to the bottom, but I hadn't found anything else that worked for me.
I dropped ten or twelve rounds into the oil, where they quickly settled on the bottom rack. After a few seconds they floated up to the top, and I took my flipping sticks and nudged them over once I thought they were ready. There's more of an art than a science to doing it, and I didn't use timers for this stage. Once the donuts were the perfect color on both sides, I used the handles and lifted the donuts from the hot oil and emptied the rack onto the glazing station. Scooping up glaze in the loaf pan, I poured a cascade of white sweetness over them, put a new rack in the bottom of the fryer, then started over.
"Swinging," I said, and Emma ducked out of the line of fire.
"Clear," I added as I finished, then dropped new rings into the oil while Emma transferred the donuts from the rack to one of our trays. It was a many-tiered stainless steel rack on wheels, and it would hold twenty trays on each side, allowing us to store forty dozen donuts until we added them to the case out front. After the old-fashioned donuts were finished, I made each batch of cake donut we were offering today, then I turned up the fryer in preparation for the yeast donuts. Those we cooked at 365 degrees, and I'd learned early on that it was much easier to start at the lower temperatures and work my way up, instead of the other way.
As Emma washed the things we'd used so far in the industrial sink, I mixed the yeast dough. After I was finished, I pulled a wad of dough out of the mixer and covered it so it could rise. We had forty minutes now, but there was still a lot to do before we were ready to make more donuts.
First, though, it was time for our break. Emma and I normally sit outside for twenty minutes every morning--rain or shine, snow or sleet--just to get some fresh air and escape from the kitchen for a little while.
She started toward the front door when I said, "Maybe we should have our coffee inside tonight."
"Are you sure? We never have before." She looked into my eyes, then added, "Hey, you really are spooked."
"Let's just say I don't want to take any chances that I don't have to," I said.
"Inside is fine with me, then."
I got us each a mug of coffee, and we moved to one of the best couches in the place, one that also offered a great view of the front parking lot. At least no one would be able to sneak up on us.
Emma tucked her legs under her, something I hadn't been able or even willing to try in years, and said, "Now that we have a few minutes, tell me what you've been up to."
I reluctantly brought her up to speed on my visit to the bank, the so-called investment house, and the construction company. She listened with rapt interest, interrupting now and then with a question or two.
After I was finished, she said, "You should really talk to Dad."
"I'm not ready to talk to the press about this yet," I said.
"He won't print what you talk about if you ask him to keep it off the record," Emma said, "but he may know some things you don't. I know the paper's
a joke around town, but Dad's got sources everywhere, and he'll help you. I know he will."
"How can you be so sure it won't end up in his paper?"
"Believe me, if I get him to promise, you'll be all right, and I won't let you talk to him until he gives us both his word. For Dad, that's more binding than any contract that's ever been written."
I thought about it, then I said, "I need to have something more concrete before I even think about talking to someone else about it."
"I understand that. Don't dismiss him out of hand, though. He just might have something that helps you. Have you thought about what your next step is going to be?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "I guess I'll keep digging and see what I can turn up."
"Don't worry, we'll find out who killed Patrick."
I put my coffee cup down on the table. "Hang on one second. I'm not going to let you get involved in this."
"Why not?"
"It's too dangerous. Besides, this isn't your fight, it's mine." The last thing I wanted was Emma's life in jeopardy because of me.
She frowned as she asked me, "Did you say the same thing to George?"
"No," I admitted.
"Why not?"
"This is different," I said.
"Why, just because he's older than I am? I don't just work here, Suzanne. I thought we were friends."
"We are," I said. "That's why I don't want to put you at risk."
"That's the wrong way to think of it. I'm involved because I want to be. I knew Patrick Blaine, too, and I liked him. Besides, I'm over eighteen, and I've been making my own decisions for a lot longer than that." She grinned at me and added, "If you don't believe that, just ask my dad."
"Fine, you can help, but I'm not going to let you take any chances, do you understand?"
"I won't take any you wouldn't yourself," she said.
I was about to reply when the timer went off.
Emma bounced off the couch. "I'd love to sit and chat all morning, but those donuts aren't going to make themselves."
She was entirely too happy to be involved in my unofficial investigation. The real reason I was reluctant to use her was because I was afraid Emma thought of this as a game instead of real life, with its matching levels of danger. If anything happened to her because of me, I'd never be able to forgive myself. It meant that I'd have to keep a closer eye on her, and that was a distraction I really couldn't afford at the moment.
MOMMA'S HOMEMADE WAFFLES
We love these waffles, especially on the weekends when everyone has more time to relax and enjoy a meal instead of rushing off into the world. These are especially good with a side of baked apples and some steaming hot syrup, along with real butter. It's a great time to indulge a little, and enjoy some wonderful taste sensations.
INGREDIENTS
11/4 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
Dash of salt
1 tablespoon sugar
2 eggs, separated
11/4 cups buttermilk
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
DIRECTIONS
Combine the flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar in a medium-sized bowl and set it aside. In another medium-sized bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff, moist peaks form. In a third bowl, beat the yolks lightly, stir in the buttermilk and oil, and blend it all together well. Pour the liquid at one time into the dry ingredients, then beat this mixture until it's smooth. Next fold the beaten egg whites into the mix, and you're ready to bake the waffles in your waffle iron.
MODIFICATIONS
You can add blueberries, mashed bananas, bacon, or chopped nuts to the batter to create different types of waffles with the same basic recipe.
It's fun to experiment, and you can test several different combinations with the basic mix once you've folded the beaten egg whites into the batter.
Makes 8-10 square waffles.
CHAPTER 4
By the time we were ready to open our doors for business at 5:30 A.M., Emma was prepared to charge out into the darkness and find Patrick Blaine's killer before noon.
"Remember," I said before I undid the dead bolt, "you're not going to do anything until you talk to me first."
"Fine," she said, though I could hear the reluctance in her tone. "But I want to be a part of this. Remember, I have a stake in it. He was my friend, too."
"I said I would, now let's sell some donuts."
I opened the door, and George was waiting patiently for us.
"You're early two days in a row," I said.
"What can I say? I had an early-morning craving for donuts," he said as he brushed in past me. "Hi, Emma."
" 'Morning, George. I've got your coffee ready."
She handed him a mug, and he took a sip, then he smiled. "You're an angel, young lady. Marry me."
Emma laughed. "I'm not sure you could handle me."
He grinned in return. "You want to know the truth? I think you might be right. Just be glad I'm not a hundred years younger, or you'd be in trouble."
As he took his seat at the counter, he said, "Emma, could I trouble you for a lemon-filled donut with chocolate icing and some of those sprinkles you're always carrying on about?"
She didn't even have to check our inventory. "We don't have any in the case, but I can make one just for you."
"I'd be much obliged," he said.
She was almost through the door that led to the kitchen when she stopped dead. Emma pivoted, then stared hard at George for a split second. "You're trying to get rid of me, aren't you?"
"What are you talking about? I just want a donut."
Emma put her hands on her hips. "I doubt you've had a sprinkle in your life, and you don't seem like the type to start now. If you're going to talk about Patrick Blaine's murder, you can speak freely in front of me. Suzanne's agreed to let me help."
He gave me a troubling glare. "Did she, now?"
I wasn't about to accept a scolding from him.
"George, she's as much at risk as I am working here. It's only fair she gets to help figure out what really happened."
I tried to warn him off that particular line of
questioning with my eyes, and he caught it without faltering. George's years as a cop had made him pretty observant, something I was counting on.
He nodded. "That's all well and good, but I really do want that donut."
