Goodbye Cruller World (A Deputy Donut Mystery)

Goodbye Cruller World (A Deputy Donut Mystery)

Named after her beloved tabby, Deputy Donut, Emily Westhill's donut shop in small-town Fallingbrook, Wisconsin, is doing so well, she's expanding into catering weddings. But a killer is about to crash the reception . . .   Normally, Emily's eyes tend to glaze over when prospective brides go on about their wedding plans. But when the owner of the clothing shop, Dressed to Kill, asks Emily to design a donut wall for her reception, she’s immediately sweet on the idea. With the help of her father-in-law and business partner—the former police chief of Fallingbrook—she hangs the treats from dowels on the wall so guests can help themselves.   But that night, when the groom ends up on the floor with signs of poisoning, Emily suspects someone has tampered with her treats. When the groom dies, there's no way to sugarcoat it: she’s got a murder on her hands. Despite a list of suspects as long as the guest list, Emily vows to find out who created the killer confection to save her shop’s reputation and keep the bride out of handcuffs. She’ll have to move fast . . . before the poisoner takes a powder. Ginger Bolton is the pseudonym of an Agatha-nominated cozy mystery author. She is the author of Survival of the Fritters and Goodbye Cruller World in the Deputy Donut Mystery series, and is very fond of donuts, coffee, and coffee shops that encourage patrons to linger and chat. Ginger lives in a rural area surrounded by cozy villages. When she isn’t reading, writing, or daydreaming while gazing out windows, she walks her dogs, plays an electric piano (she uses earphones so as not to frighten the wildlife), creates minor disasters in her kitchen, and, very occasionally, takes part in local amateur theater productions, which, intended or not, become comedies. Goodbye Cruller World By Ginger Bolton KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2018 Janet Bolin All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4967-1189-2 CHAPTER 1 The yelling began almost the second I started walking down the driveway between Deputy Donut, the café that my father-in-law and I owned, and Dressed to Kill, Jenn Zeeland's cute clothing boutique. The loud argument wasn't going on inside Deputy Donut, where Tom was finishing the day's tidying. It was going on inside Dressed to Kill, where I was heading. I couldn't make out the words, but the women spewing them were obviously angry. I almost turned around and went back to Deputy Donut. However, it was nearly five. In ten minutes, Dressed to Kill would close for two weeks, and I needed the black jeans and white shirts that I'd ordered. Besides, what if Jenn was in danger? I hurried to the front of Dressed to Kill. I wasn't about to barge inside without peeking in first. Jenn's display windows were lovely, but I couldn't see beyond her hand-knit sweaters, mittens, scarves, and hats, and the cords and down-filled vests that went with them. The clothes were draped over antique skis, sleds, skates, and snowshoes. In one window, an electric fireplace sent warm hues rippling over the entire scene. It could have been very welcoming if women inside the store hadn't been screaming at each other only seconds before. A red-faced woman burst out of Dressed to Kill. She muttered, "Don't go in there," budged past me, and raced south on Wisconsin Street. My training kicked in. Get a description, Emily. I guessed she was in her mid-to-late forties. She was tall and angular, with straight brown flyaway hair. Her mid-calf, flowing dress, a floral print in blue and white, hung several inches below an unbuttoned navy wool coat. She hadn't zipped up the sides of her tan knee-high leather boots. With their tops flapping and threatening to trip her with each step, she ran past the bookstore and the artisans' co-op, and then she turned right and disappeared. For a few seconds, I heard the clap, clap, clap of those unzipped boots. I had never seen her before. I again considered returning to Deputy Donut. Before Tom and I opened our coffee and donut shop, he had been Fallingbrook's police chief. Tom could handle whatever had gone on inside Dressed to Kill. And so can you, Emily. I pulled the door open. Tiny bells jingled. Usually, unless Jenn was busy with a customer, she heard the bells, peeked around racks of clothing, and greeted me. This time, she didn't. I was getting twitchy. That shouting I'd heard earlier ... And now, this breathless quiet ... I told myself I was being overly dramatic. Jenn knew I was coming. Besides, she was probably immersed in wedding preparations. I tiptoed into the store. I couldn't help touching, with one tentative finger, an emerald green velvet cocktail dress. It would be perfect for Jenn's reception the next night, but I was attending the reception late, only to keep the donut wall stocked, and I would be wearing my Deputy Donut uniform. The black jeans and white shirt would be new, though, if Jenn was here to give them to me. "Jenn?" I called. No answer. I walked farther into the store