Boston Scream Murder. Ginger Bolton

pretty good,” he said. “Acceptable, actually.”

      I managed not to laugh at the backhanded compliment. “Thank you.”

      He pointed a finger at me. “If you double the chocolate frosting, your Boston cream donuts will be about perfect. And you need to be more careful. Mine looks like someone stuck their fingers into it.”

      “We did that on purpose, with a spoon handle and a skewer, not our fingers. Before you bit into it, there was a face. It’s a Boston scream donut, because Halloween’s coming up.”

      He looked down at his plate. “I get it. Very clever. Still, you could charge more for them with that one improvement, thicker frosting. I was a bank manager before I retired, and I know how small businesses can get themselves into trouble by skimping on quantity and substituting gimmicks for quality. There. That’s some free advice for you, little lady.”

      I thanked him again.

      “And I have to congratulate you and your colleagues on your outfits. The black slacks, white shirts, and white aprons with your logo on them are good branding. Do you know what branding is?”

      “Yes.”

      He glanced at my head. “The fur donuts on your hats are a little over-the-top.” I grinned, but he didn’t seem to notice that what he’d said could be funny. He went on, “I get it. Deputy Donut. A donut on a deputy’s hat. And even the cat in your logo is wearing one. The tilt to the cat’s hat is a nice touch.”

      “Thank you. The donuts on our hats are not real fur.”

      “I knew that from the first glance.” He leaned forward and spoke, for once, quietly. “I was told that the people working here would know who Cheryl is.”

      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.”