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Chapter 2

The Boston Screamer glanced around our charming and friendly café. “I don’t see anyone resembling Cheryl’s picture.”

I reassured him. “She should be here any minute.”

“Okay, good. Get me another Boston cream donut on a fresh plate for her. Double the chocolate frosting on hers and don’t poke anything into it or make it look like a screaming face. I want to make a good impression.”

This guy was amusing me, but needing to be polite to customers, I managed not to laugh.

“And bring her some of your coffee. What did the young lady who took my order say today’s special was? I want the best premium coffee you can bring me.”

“It’s a blend from Guatemala, a dark roast. The flavor is mellow, but people tell me that the caffeine level is high.”

“Excellent. But don’t bring them until Cheryl gets here. I don’t want the donut to be stale or the coffee to be cold. It’s freshly brewed, right, and hasn’t been sitting around getting scorched and bitter?”

Now I really had to struggle not to laugh. “Right,” I said.

“And you’ll bring me the bill, for both of us.”

“Okay.” I was almost certain that he was too micromanaging for Cheryl.

He asked, “Have you ever been to Boston?”

“Once, when I was twelve, on a summer vacation.”

“Isn’t it a great city?”

“I liked it.”

“You probably don’t remember much about it. You should go back for a visit. You should consider moving there. I worked in Boston the summer I was twenty-three, in a restaurant. Best summer of my life. The seafood! I must have eaten a ton of seafood that summer alone.”

Still uncharacteristically quiet, the other men at his table were watching him as if he were a rare specimen in the New England Aquarium.

The Boston Screamer sipped at his coffee, put it down, and glanced around our dining room again. “This place looks good. Who was your decorator?”

I wasn’t sure that the Boston Screamer could see Tom from where he was sitting, but I pointed toward the kitchen. “The man in the kitchen in the donut hat and I did it ourselves. He’s my business partner.”

“Business partner, as in you and he own this place together?”

“Fifty-fifty. We opened it after Tom retired. He was Fallingbrook’s police chief.”

“Aha. Tom Westhill.” The Boston Screamer nodded, the complacent gesture of a man who knows or knows of everyone in town. “I’ve heard he’s a good man. So that’s why you named it Deputy Donut.”

“It was the cat’s name first.”

The Boston Screamer tightened his lips to a pinched frown. “Health regulations don’t allow cats in public dining areas.”

“She doesn’t go near the food. She stays in our office. Look through the window from the dining area into the office. We made it a kitty playground with ramps, catwalks, kitty staircases, tunnels, and carpeted columns.”

He rose to his feet and gazed toward the rear of the building. “Creative. I like all the windows and your use of foodie colors—coffee and chocolate browns, peaches, apricots, tangerines, butter, and whipped cream.”

This time my smile was genuine. “We did that on purpose, but you’re the first person to comment on it, complete with foodie words. The colors go with the cat, too.” Dep was a torbie, a very special tortoiseshell tabby with rings on her sides that resembled donuts. She was watching us from the back of the café-au-lait couch. She wasn’t puffed up, but she was alert, as if she hadn’t yet decided whether the latest Deputy Donut customer was a friend or a foe. She could be persnickety about which customers I should or should not serve.

The Boston Screamer gave me an approving nod. “And there’s an emergency exit from your office. Where does that go?”

Wondering if he had a particular reason for checking on the location of emergency exits, I answered, “To the parking lot. And there’s another back door, too, from our storeroom. You have to go through the kitchen.”

The Boston Screamer sat down again. “Good. I admire people who plan well. Did you and Chief Westhill design that office?”

“We designed the entire shop. Tom’s wife, who teaches art at Fallingbrook High, helped us paint the tabletops.”

“What about the kitchen? Commercial kitchens can be tricky. Didn’t you hire a professional designer?”

“We designed it ourselves.”

Smoothing the Deputy Donut logo on his paper napkin, he asked, not shouting but not whispering, either, “How would you like to earn extra money on the side?”

I didn’t know where this was heading, but I was glad that the retired men were witnessing the conversation and that I still wore my wedding ring. “We cater, too,” I said quickly. “Donuts and beverages, and we can stack donuts into shapes for cake-like desserts or provide a donut wall.”

“Hmm. I have a party coming up.”

Uh-oh. I was planning a party for friends on Saturday, which was Halloween, after the trick-or-treating. I hoped his party wasn’t that night. I attempted an encouraging smile.

The Boston Screamer didn’t need encouragement. “It’s tomorrow, my seventieth birthday. It’s being catered, but I’d like you to provide three dozen donuts and an urn of this superb coffee, by the time the party starts tomorrow at noon. The donuts shouldn’t be stacked into shapes or anything silly like that. I want double thickness on the chocolate frosting, and no holes in the frosting. Not Boston scream but Boston cream. When your birthday’s only four days before Halloween, you don’t want Halloween decorations upstaging you. But the important part is not my birthday. It’s Boston.”

“Then maybe you’d like tea.”

He pointed a finger at me. “You’re quick. I like that. Think you can be quick enough to make three dozen donuts and deliver them out at Lake Fleekom at eleven fifty-five tomorrow morning? Do you know where Lake Fleekom is?”

“Yes.”

He explained, anyway. “It’s only ten minutes away.”

I glanced toward the kitchen again. All three of us were scheduled to work the next day. “We can do that,” I said.

“Here’s what I also have in mind, in addition to my Boston tea party.” His lips twitched in a fleeting grin. “I have a cottage that I occasionally let renters use. The interior’s outdated, and last week’s tenants damaged it. I need to patch the walls and repaint, and I’d like to renovate the kitchen so that the ladies would love to cook in it. I’m not much for cooking. My late wife did all that, and here it is twenty years later, and I’m still not into cooking. Thank goodness for you folks and your restaurants and takeout.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll get contractors in to do the work, but I’d like you to give me some ideas about the latest trends in colors and kitchen design. I do have a few ideas, so you wouldn’t be starting from scratch. For renters to feel at home, I should remove the pictures of my late wife. Also, I’d like to give the whole place an updated New England vibe, make people feel like they’re at a seaside cottage. Meet me there this evening, if you can. Bring Chief Westhill along if it makes you feel safer.”

“This evening’s fine.” I did not want to go alone to a strange man’s cottage, but Tom worked long hours and enjoyed spending at least some time at home with Cindy. I asked, “How about if our assistant, Nina Lapeer, comes along instead of Tom? She’s an artist.”

“The young lady who served me when I first came in? Did she help you paint these donut tables? They’re very well executed.”

“Thank you. We did that before we met her.”

“That’s okay, anyway. Bring Nina along. An artist, you say?” He didn’t seem to require an answer. “I’ve heard from my banking clients how that goes. It doesn’t pay, and she has to do jobs like waitressing to buy supplies and make ends meet. But I can tell by the way she uses makeup to show off those cheekbones and the planes of her face that she has artistic talent. After all my years as an executive, I can spot the ones who might expend enough effort to succeed.”

I pointed to the largest painting in the room, a jumble of sailboats, rowboats, and canoes in an impressionistic style, seen from above, all in moody tones of indigo and blue. “She painted that one.”

Sipping coffee, he gazed at it. “Is she represented by a gallery?”

“The Craft Croft.”

“I know the place.” He pointed south. “It’s a few blocks that way, down Wisconsin Street. Tell Nina she needs to aim higher than artisans’ co-ops. She should try for galleries in larger cities.”

Pleased at his compliments for Nina, I ignored the slight to The Craft Croft and to Fallingbrook, which was big compared to nearby towns and villages. “I think that’s what she hopes to do. She’s good, isn’t she?”

“Very. And I know a little bit about art. She shouldn’t be wasting her time here.”

Fortunately, I didn’t need to find a diplomatic answer to that. The Knitpickers were outside the front door, surrounding a woman as if persuading her to come inside.

At first, I didn’t recognize Cheryl. Last I knew, her curls had been white. Now they were shades of sun-kissed sand. One of Cheryl’s friends opened the door. “Cheryl’s coming in,” I told the Boston Screamer. “I’ll introduce her to you.”

He stood up. “I’ll move to another table. Excuse me, gentlemen. I enjoyed our talk.”

That was no wonder.

Taking his mug and plate, he moved farther back to a table for two. I went to the front door and welcomed the Knitpickers.

Although never having had children, let alone grandchildren, Cheryl reminded me of a grandmother. She had a way of beaming when she smiled, even though her biggest smiles often caused her round, rosy cheeks to nearly hide her eyes. Today, not only had she dyed her curls light brown with blond highlights, she was wearing a new outfit—gray slacks, a floral blouse, and a purple cardigan that matched the flowers on the blouse and the frames of her glasses, which I’d also never seen before.

She seemed to be trying to appear brave. However, looking into her blue eyes, I was certain that she was nervous. The entire effect—hair color, new outfit, apprehensive expression—made her look younger than usual.

I extended a hand toward her. “Cheryl, come with me. There’s someone here who wants to meet you.”

Cheryl’s friends settled themselves at their usual table near the retired men. The Knitpickers weren’t paying a lot of attention to the retired men or to the knitting they were pulling out of bags and baskets. They were watching Cheryl.

I led her to the table where the Boston Screamer was standing behind the chair across from his. He pulled out the chair.

“This is Cheryl,” I told him. Not knowing his name, and not about to introduce him as the Boston Screamer, I let him introduce himself.

“I’m Richmond P. Royalson the Third,” he informed her. “Call me Rich.” Emphasizing the shortened form of his first name, he flashed an expensive-looking gold wristwatch. “Have a seat, Cheryl. I’ve ordered for you.”