Cadbury Creme Murder by Susan Gillard Page B

spit, then rinsed out her toothbrush until every last
speck of toothpaste had been washed down the drain.  Placing the toothbrush
back in its holder, she let her long, curly red hair out of the clip she’d used
to keep it out of the way while she washed her face, turned out the bathroom
light, and went into her bedroom.
     
    Sitting
down on the edge of the bed, she checked the message.  It was from Ryan.  Patrol
officer thought it was a hole made from the piece of wood.  It was a bullet
hole.
     
    Heather
frowned.  Something didn’t make sense.  What? she texted back.
     
     Thirty
seconds later, her phone pinged again.  Piece of wood stuck in a hole in
Verna Dixon’s chest.  It was a bullet hole. 
     
    Slowly,
Heather’s mouth dropped open.  So somebody shot her, then stuck a piece of
wood in the hole???
     
    Sick
people in this world ,
he texted back.  Try to get some sleep.
     
    Yeah,
right , she thought as
she laid the phone on her nightstand and slipped beneath the covers.  Like
I’m going to sleep now .
     
    She
lay awake wondering not only why in the world someone would shoot Verna Dixon,
but why presumably the same person would then place a small stick of wood into
the bullet hole.
     
    Maybe
to make it look like Verna was killed by flying debris.  But wouldn’t the
person—the killer —realize that it would be obvious that the piece of
wood hadn’t made the hole?
     
    When
she finally fell asleep, her dreams were in black and white.  A tornado swirled
around Verna’s little house.  As Verna struggled frantically to shut the
window, a piece of the shutter broke off and lodged itself in her chest.  Verna
fell back onto the bed, unable to move.  “Help me!” she whispered, her eyes
pleading as she looked straight into Heather’s eyes.  “I’ve been shot!”
     
    But
Heather couldn’t move.  She could only watch helplessly as Verna’s eyes closed
and her head lolled to the side.
     

Chapter
2
     
    The
clock on her car’s dashboard read 3:42 as Heather drove through darkened
streets toward Donut Delights.  After her divorce from ex-husband Don six years
ago, she had left New York City, which she’d never liked anyway, and returned
to her roots in Hillside, Texas.
     
    With
the money she’d received in the divorce settlement, she rented space in the
building her shop now occupied, purchased equipment, and set up for business. 
It had always been her dream to own her own business, and having that dream
become reality in her hometown was especially meaningful to her.
     
    Even
though she was the owner of Donut Delights, with three employees, she worked
every day, with only rare exceptions.  She loved adapting some of her late
grandmother’s recipes and turning them into reality in the form of gourmet
donuts; she loved interacting with her customers; and she loved having
something to do that made her feel productive.  Made her feel like she was
making her own corner of the world a little tastier and a little better.
     
    Not
that she usually came to work before 4:00 in the morning.  Being the owner did
have some advantages, after all.  But that morning, still lying in bed, she had
suddenly realized she was wide awake.  After trying to sleep for a few more
minutes, she gave up.  Glancing over to see the numerals on her digital clock
glowing 3:12, she decided to go to work and threw back the covers.
     
    Maricela,
her cousin, Angelica, and Jung, a Korean man, would already be at work.  They
arrived at 3 to begin preparations for serving the customers who would begin
arriving as soon as the shop opened at 5.  They made dough, baked or deep-fried
donuts, prepared fillings, iced the tasty confections, and placed them all on
display in glass counters.
     
    Maybe
they can use some help this morning, Heather thought.  Maybe I’ll make a new
kind of donut.  Take my mind off Verna and how she died.
     
    When
Heather had checked her phone first thing that morning, there had been