Double Shots, Donuts, and Dead Dudes Read online

  Chapter Seventeen

  If I hadn’t had my seatbelt on, I would have jumped a mile high. As it was, I was safely restricted to where I belonged but still jumped high enough that Alberto immediately looked surprised and apologetic outside my window.

  Once I could breathe again, I turned Celine down—even though my song wasn’t over yet—and rolled down my window. “You scared me.”

  “I’m sorry! I was just trying to get your attention.” Alberto’s expression looked braced for the lecture on startling people he probably thought was coming.

  “It’s fine.” I blushed a little, knowing that he’d seen my melodramatic karaoke antics, but tried to push that aside. I was an adult, and he was a teenager. I was a good fifteen years beyond the age where I should care what a teenage boy thought of me.

  “But what made that noise?” I asked. It hadn’t been the knocking that had scared me so much as the metallic clink against my window.

  The sound had ripped me from the imaginary crumbling castle and dumped me in a mob drama where the hit man hired to kill you wants to get your attention before he kills you so you know that you’ve run out of luck and you’re about to pay for your sins against his employer.

  Somehow, my first thought was that Pablo’s bookie had already found out that I had learned about Pablo’s gambling habits and had sent his goons to finish me off. Even though I didn’t know his name, so it wasn’t like I had the most useful information in the world to turn him in to the police. And now I wished I’d thought to ask Eduardo for the bookie’s name. I wondered if Alberto would give me his uncle’s number if I asked. Of course, he’d probably think I wanted to hit on him if I did. Not that I cared what a teenage boy thought of me.

  Alberto held up his right hand, the back of it facing me. “My class ring,” he said. And sure enough, a massive class ring adorned his ring finger, complete with the sea-green gemstone that was the signature of Cape Bay High.

  “Ah, I have one of those. Smaller, but basically the same. Cape Bay green and all. Go Lobsters!” I raised and clenched my fist in imitation of a high school football game cheer.

  “You went to Cape Bay High?” Alberto asked, instantly transformed by excitement at the mention of school, of all things. “Did you have Mrs. Howard?”

  “Uh, no, but I think she was in my graduating class.” I wasn’t sure whether I should be flattered that he thought I was young enough to have had Emily Howard as my teacher or insulted that he thought a woman who was basically my age was old enough to have taught high school for almost twenty years. I decided it wasn’t worth thinking about since teenage boys weren’t necessarily known for their aptitude at gauging adult women’s ages.

  “Oh,” he said, looking disappointed. “She’s really cool.”

  “I do remember her being really cool.” Actually, I didn’t. I remembered her being quiet and bookish, with a goofy, silly sense of humor, but one of the nicest people in our class. Still, I could see how that could grow into a student-favorite teacher.

  Alberto nodded. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.”

  I waited a moment for him to tell me what he wanted to talk to me about. Surely he didn’t just want to terrify me, show me his class ring, and talk about his teachers. When he didn’t say anything, I prompted him. “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  It took him a minute to break out of his daydream, possibly one about his teacher, who I now remembered was quite pretty. When he did though, he went from looking happy and dreamy to sad in an instant. “Mom said your name’s Fran, right?”

  I nodded. “Francesca. But most people call me Fran. Fran Amaro. My last name’s Amaro.” I wondered why I was suddenly babbling. I had an inkling I knew what he was going to say, and that may have been making me nervous.

  “From the café downtown? Antonia’s?”

  “Yup, that’s me.” I was trying to sound lighthearted.

  “You were there when my dad died.”

  I stared at him for a second then nodded slowly. Technically, he died at the hospital. But that wasn’t what Alberto meant. “I was there when he collapsed, yes.”

  “Was it—was it fast? Did he suffer?”

  I thought of the moments before the collapse, when Pablo had seemed confused and kept rubbing his head. I thought of the pain that had contorted his face just before he fell. And I shook my head. “No. I don’t think he suffered. It all happened pretty fast.”

  He stared somewhere above my car. “Did you try to save him?”

  My throat closed up. I nodded, but he was still staring into the distance. I managed to force out a strangled, “Yes. My boyfriend and I tried to save him. And Bill from the restaurant. He was right there too.”

  “What about the other people who were there? Did they just sit there and stare at him while he—while he died?”

  Tears streamed down his face, and mine started to spill over.

  “They didn’t stare. Everyone was worried about him. And a lot of people tried to help him.” I thought of the people who had lined up to take turns with CPR. And I thought of the people who stood outside to wave the ambulance in even though we all knew the paramedics knew where they were going. And the people who wept. And the ones who whispered prayers. I knew what Alberto was asking, and I knew that wasn’t what he meant. No one gawked. No one thought his father’s death was entertainment.

  Alberto reached into his T-shirt and pulled out a familiar shiny-black rosary. “This was my dad’s.”

  I smiled. “I recognized it.”

  He looked down at the crucifix cradled in his hand and smiled a little too. “Mom wanted to bury him with it, but I wanted to keep it. Adriana wanted his pinkie ring. She put it on a chain and wears it around her neck all the time like I wear this. So we can remember our dad.”

  “To keep him close to your hearts.”

  He looked me in the eye for the first time and nodded. Then he bit his upper lip and looked back into the sky above the car. “I’m afraid I’m going to forget him,” he said quietly and with a tone in his voice I knew meant he was fighting back tears. He swiped at his face to get rid of the ones that had already erupted. “You said your mom died recently. Do you feel like you’re forgetting her?”

  The tears that I’d so far mostly managed to contain spilled down my cheeks. I shook my head. “No. There’s too much to remind me of her. But I know how you feel. Sometimes I’m afraid I’m forgetting how she smelled, and I have to pull out something of hers that still has her perfume on it. Or I think I’m going to forget her voice, so I replay a conversation in my head so I feel like I hear her.”

  He nodded.

  “It’s something everyone goes through. You won’t forget him. I promise.”

  He smiled and thanked me. “I better get back inside before Mom wonders where I am.”

  As he started to jog around the car and back to the house, I thought of something. I rolled down the passenger-side window. “Alberto!”

  He jogged back toward me and leaned in the open window.

  “If you ever want to talk—about your dad, about losing a parent, whatever—I’m here for you. I’m usually at the café in the afternoon, so come by anytime. Even if you don’t want to talk.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, Miss Amaro.”

  I almost told him to call me Fran, but I remembered his mother’s stern look when she said that the kids would call me Miss Amaro and thought better of it. But thinking of his mother brought something else to mind too. “Alberto!”

  He came back to the car yet again.

  “Weird question—did you live with your mom or your dad?”

  He made a face like it really was a weird question. “Uh, both, I guess. I stayed at my dad’s sometimes and here sometimes. Why?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious, I guess. Thanks!”

  He gave me a “whatever, lady” kind of look and turned to go back to the house.

  “And come by the café anytime!”

  He didn’t turn aro
und this time but waved a hand at me over his head so I knew he heard.

  I rolled up my windows and drove back to the café.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So, what’s going on with these donuts I keep hearing about?” Rhonda asked by way of greeting as soon as I walked in the door.

  “Well, hello to you too,” I replied.

  “Hi. Now what’s the deal with the donuts?”

  I rolled my eyes and went to the back to put down my stuff before answering her. When I came back out, she was leaning on the counter like she owned the place, staring expectantly. “Well?” she asked.

  “What about them?” I knew exactly what she meant, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. Not yet anyway.

  “Are we selling them? Are we taking preorders? Because I had three different people come in, asking for donuts and wanting to know if they could place an order for tomorrow morning.”

  I blanched, suddenly remembering the stack of orders sitting in the back that Sammy had taken that morning. “Did you let them?”

  “Did I let them place an order for something I had no idea that we even sell?”

  She had a point.

  “No, of course I didn’t. I told them we weren’t currently taking orders for tomorrow morning, but if they came back in the morning, there was a chance we could help them, but I wasn’t sure because I didn’t know how many we would have. I figured that as long as I didn’t make any promises, no one could be upset.”

  “Thank you!” I hugged her while she looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

  “Okay, you’re going to have to clue me in here, because I’m confused.”

  I quickly gave her a rundown of what had happened the day before with Pablo’s friend Fitz, his request for a Boston Cream, and my spur-of-the-moment decision to add donuts to the menu.

  When I was finished, Rhonda looked at me skeptically. “And were you going to tell me any of this?”

  “Well.” I paused, wondering what exactly my excuse was for not sharing this relatively significant bit of news with one of the two people I could trust the café with when I ran off on one of my investigations. Other than just forgetting, of course, which was the truth.

  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “I kind of thought Sammy would have told you.”

  “Did you see how busy we were earlier? Sammy could barely tell me when we needed to put more cookies out, let alone that you’d added a whole new menu item.”

  “Sorry.” I looked down at my shoes like I was a little kid in trouble with their mom.

  “No big deal. I’m just giving you a hard time.” She laughed and slapped me on the shoulder the way teenage boys do with their friends.

  “Ouch!” I rubbed my arm.

  “Sorry! Too much time around the boys. I really need to get out more.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to come here anytime.”

  “Will I get paid?”

  “Not if you just sit in the corner and read a book.”

  She shrugged. “Sounds fair. Now tell me more about these donuts. You said you had plain glazed and—what was the other one? Chocolate icing with sprinkles?”

  I nodded.

  She looked bored. “Not very exciting.”

  “Wow, thanks for the ringing endorsement there, Rhonda.” If I hadn’t been used to her dry sense of humor, I probably would have been annoyed by our entire interaction since I got back to the café, but I was used to it and knew she didn’t mind me being saucy right back to her, so it didn’t bother me.

  She laughed. “Sorry. I’m just saying that it’s great that we’re the only place in town that has donuts, but I feel like you, of all people, want to distinguish yourself by being more than just the only place in town that has them.”

  She was right. Coffee was great, but I wanted to serve the best coffee in town. (I did.) Tiramisu was great, but I wanted us to have the very best tiramisu. (We did, because I brought it in from the restaurant in the next town whose tiramisu had actually won awards.) And cupcakes were good, but the best cupcakes were better. (Those actually belonged to a bakery down the street, but it was open different hours, and we served different flavors, so the baker and I had agreed to call it a draw. I’d even caught her buying one of mine on occasion. But I bought hers too.) So having donuts was great, and having delicious donuts was better, but having delicious donuts that you couldn’t find in every donut shop across the country was what I really wanted.

  “So, what kinds do you think we should make?”

  “Boston cream,” she said immediately.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course. Actual chocolate?”

  “Let me get a pen and a piece of paper.” Working with what was on hand, I ended up with a napkin and a permanent marker we kept near the register to label food. I wrote down Rhonda’s chocolate glazed idea. “What next?”

  “Powdered sugar? Vanilla sprinkle?” She rattled off a bunch more, and I jotted them down on a series of napkins. “I think that’s about all the normal ones,” she said finally.

  “We weren’t going for normal, were we?”

  “Nope.”

  “So we need some more unusual ideas.” I drummed the marker on the counter. “Maple-bacon? Do a maple glaze and crumble bacon over top?”

  “I would eat that.” She thought for a minute. “There’s a donut shop I’ve been to in Boston that ices the donuts and then puts cereal on them.”

  “That could be interesting.” I jotted it down.

  “That same place had a spicy s’mores donut made with green tea.”

  I blinked at her. “Are you serious?”

  “Cross my heart.” She made the crossing motion over her chest and didn’t even crack a smile.

  Knowing Rhonda’s sense of humor, I wasn’t quite sure whether to believe her. “Did you try it?” I asked slowly.

  She nodded. “They had samples out. Apparently it’s one of their top sellers.”

  “And how was it?”

  She paused. “Not as bad as I expected, actually.”

  “Good to know. I’m still not sure it would be right for Cape Bay though.”

  “Noooo. That is not a Cape Bay donut. I like the tea idea though, especially since we’re a café and we serve tea. It’s a fun tie-in.”

  “Something with coffee would be better though, don’t you think?”

  “Coffee cake?”

  “Doesn’t usually have actual coffee in it.” I wrote it down anyway because I liked coffee cake. “But if there are recipes for donuts made with tea, I’m sure I could find one for a donut made with coffee, or at least adapt one for it.”

  “I’d eat that. You know what else would be good? A coffee glaze on it.”

  “Oooh!” I jotted it down with three exclamation points. Coffee glaze sounded delicious. “And maybe we could make some other ones inspired by the drinks on the menu. Like mocha.”

  “Mocha would be delicious! Those would sell like hotcakes.”

  “Or like really tasty donuts.” I grinned.

  The café was slow, so we spent a little more time brainstorming donut flavors, including lots of different fillings, before Rhonda had to go home so she had time to cook for her husband and two teenage sons.

  “They complain if I don’t make dinner, but if I make something that’s actually good, they don’t appreciate it,” she said as she gathered her things.

  “Teenagers aren’t exactly known for their sophisticated palates. The spicy s’mores green tea donuts might be too sophisticated for them,” I teased.

  She looked at me wearily. “I’m talking about chicken and rice with a pan sauce, not foie gras and caviar. Sometimes, I think they’d be perfectly happy if I just threw a frozen pizza on the table every night. But then I’d have to eat it too.”

  “You could make the frozen pizza for them and make something good for yourself.”

  “I tried that. They complained about that too.”

  “Sounds like you’re out
of luck, then.”

  “Sure am. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.” She sighed and swung her jacket onto her back. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  After she left, with just a slow trickle of customers going in and out of the café, I started working on my donut batter. I wasn’t quite ready to expand to the other flavors yet. Especially not with the seven dozen we had preordered. For now I wanted to keep it simple, but I was excited about all the possibilities Rhonda and I had come up with.

  Baking always felt therapeutic to me, and it did that night too. As I measured, weighed, mixed, and portioned, I let my mind drift over the events of the day. I had so much more information now from Pablo’s family, and honestly, I felt like I was on the right track. The bookie angle made so much sense. I really believed that it was possible—likely even—that the bookie had gotten tired of Pablo not paying and decided to take extreme measures. Besides, if they weren’t a little threatening or at least intimidating, how would they ever get people to pay up? And if Pablo had really been planning to go to the police like Eduardo said, what better way to get him to shut up than to knock him off?

  I felt a little thrill of excitement as I thought through my theory. But then I remembered Isabel’s face as we stood and talked in the kitchen. I knew the roller coaster of emotion she was on, and I felt so bad for her. If I could find Pablo’s killer, maybe it would provide her some small measure of relief, some bit of comfort at a dark time. Kind of like how my cupcakes and muffins and cookies did.

  I smiled as I remembered the snickerdoodle cookies with the cinnamon sugar topping. That would be a perfect donut. Pretty traditional but delicious all the same. And a perfect tribute to Pablo.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I had been measuring, sifting, mixing, baking, and frying for hours when I realized there was no way I was going to be done in time to go home and have dinner with Matt. Not with seven dozen donuts that needed to be ready to go pretty much as soon as Sammy opened the café in the morning. And that wasn’t even taking into account the donuts we’d need to have ready for individuals to buy.