COOKIN’ UP MURDER (Davidson & Welsh Investigations) a lighthearted and captivating mystery by D. J. Adamson ➱ Book Tour with Guest Post and giveaway
Tuesday Welsh, a witty and tenacious private investigator whose life takes an unexpected turn when she stumbles upon the lifeless body of Eric Kenny, owner of Mr. Yummy's donut shop. Yet, upon going to the home of Eric Kenny, she finds him standing in the doorway, ready to greet her.
Cookin' Up Murder
Davidson & Welsh Investigations Book One
by D.J. Adamson
Genre: Cozy Mystery
"Cookin' Up Murder" is a lighthearted and captivating mystery set in Appleton, Oregon. The story revolves around Tuesday Welsh, a witty and a tenacious private investigator whose life takes an unexpected turn when she stumbles upon the lifeless body of Eric Kenny, owner of Mr. Yummy's donut shop.
Tuesday is thrust into a web of secrets and danger that extends far beyond the sugary confines of the donut shop. As she delves deeper into the investigation, determined to unearth the truth, she finds herself entangled in a sinister plot that will shock her community. And possibly gain Davidson & Welsh a new client.
Filled with a blend of humor and suspense, "Cookin' Up Murder" is sure to captivate readers who enjoy mysteries. It offers an engaging puzzle that will keep readers guessing until the satisfying reveal of the culprit.
“Neither snow nor hunky cops nor angry cats will keep intrepid P.I. Tuesday Welsh from the (sometimes tardy) commission of her appointed rounds, chiefly trying to figure out why the body she discovered shows up alive and kicking elsewhere. “Cookin’ Up Murder” offers a delightful demonstration of how small towns can cook up big problems, with an ever-resourceful (despite herself) heroine as your guide.” – Michael Mallory.
Copyright
Copyright © 2023 by D. J. Adamson
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form
without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by
U.S. copyright law.
CHAPTER ONE
I stepped out of the
shower and suffered a chilly assault, sending a body shiver down my spine from
my nipples to my toes. I quickly dried myself, swiftly slipping into my undies
like a woman whose boyfriend’s wife just got home. Not that I would ever date a
married man. A friend of mine discovered dating a married man wasn’t the best
way to maintain a non-committed relationship. Especially if the man’s wife
owned a gun.
Next. I stepped into a pair of black polyester slacks,
grabbed a white, wrinkle-free, stain-resistant cotton blouse, and buttoned it.
Unfortunately, I found I’d skipped a button and had to re-button it, this time
starting from the bottom. Finally, I rescued my shoes from under the couch,
where a gazillion dust bunnies attacked me. I toed on my shoes. When I glimpsed
the clock, its hands pointed to eight-fifty-three. This meant I had a mere
seven minutes to get to work. The office was at least ten minutes away.
***
“Before I leave, I want you to promise that you’ll open the
office on time,” demanded Harley Davidson, my business partner, last Wednesday
night.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I replied, pretending I didn’t already
know the answer.
Harley stands at five-foot-ten, his green eyes framed by
well-groomed eyebrows. His eyes hold a mischievous glint as if he harbors
something known only to him. He might tower over me with his tousled
reddish-brown hair, but he never truly poses a formidable threat. With me, his
bark is always worse than his bite.
“Beats me why you’re never on time,” he sniffed. “I bet if
you were called to save someone from jumping off a building, you’d arrive after
the coroner.”
“Why is it a man jumping and not a woman?” I quipped, my
eyes shooting daggers at him.
He scowled, thinking I wasn’t taking his last-minute to-do
list seriously.
Harley Davidson and I have been business partners for three
years at Davidson & Welsh
Investigations. The decision to partner with him was an easy one. He possessed
an unwavering sense of integrity, even when faced with tough choices. He is
serious about business but has a quick
wit that can help calm clients down.
But, I don’t like to-do lists.
So, I added, “And why
was I the one called?” I couldn’t help
being flippant because I wasn’t the one getting to go to Los Angeles.
“Ahhhhh,” he screamed, his hands gripping his hair like a
man driven to madness.
I can cause that reaction sometimes.
“Okay, okay,” I quickly backed off and backed up, giving him
some space. He clearly wasn’t in a joking mood. So, raising my right hand, I
solemnly vowed, “I swear that the office will be unlocked, and the lights
turned on ten minutes early every day.” I crossed my heart, but without hoping
to die. A girl can only go so far.
“Hands,” he demanded.
I extended both of my hands, all fingers uncrossed, as a
gesture of goodwill.
“Just be on time. That will be miracle enough,” he stated
firmly, staring at me. But there was an upward curve on his lips. “On time and no Amazon shopping during office
hours. I should get back by Saturday night.”
“But…”
“Find new clients.”
“But…” I tried to protest again. No Amazon shopping?
Christmas was on Monday!
***
I meant to be on
time.
Only, it was going to be a close call this morning.
***
I scraped my Toyota Corolla’s windshield. Some ice, but not bad. I started the engine,
and stepped on the gas pedal, causing the front tires to spin a bit before
finding traction. If I hurried, I’d be close to keeping my promise.
Feeling good about
keeping my promise to Harley, I then spotted the Mr. Yummy’s shop. A caricature
of a large-bellied baker placed on the roofline, wearing a tall white hat and
holding a tray filled with frosted donuts is hard to miss. On impulse, I turned
into the parking lot, thinking, yummy, breakfast. “In and out fast,” I
promised myself.
Getting out of the car, my stomach growled, craving a maple
bar. I rushed to the front door. Pushed. But the door wouldn’t budge. I checked
the neon sign in the upper part of the large front window, OPEN. Cupping my
hands to prevent reflection, I peered into the store. The lights were on. Yet,
squinting, I realized the display cases were empty of donuts. Sold out? Not
likely.
With each passing minute, my lateness became more pressing,
so I headed back to the car. Suddenly, I caught a whiff of something. Something’s
on fire. Following my nose, I made my way around the shop to the back door,
which was slightly ajar. Cautiously, I stuck my head inside and called out,
“Anyone here?”
This wasn’t my first time at Mr. Yummy’s. In fact, I was a
frequent customer and had gotten to know the owner, Eric Kenny. Upon entering
the sweltering bakery, a repugnant stench made my nose itch and overwhelmed the
fragrance of swizzling donuts.
Pallets stacked with cans of oil and cartons of Mr. Yummy’s
mixes blocked a clear view. Moving further into the room, I saw a work counter
with dough mounds covered in flour, rising. Just beyond there, a small
collection of racks displaying donuts, waiting to be glazed.
“Hello? The front door is locked even though the sign says
open,” I announced, thinking the owner wasn’t aware of the fact.
Then, I saw him. His arms were hugging a large
stainless-steel tub, desperately trying to stop it from falling.
“Mr. Kenny?” I
shouted, rushing over to him. His head floated on a vat of oil. His one visible
eye, scorched yellow, had popped and stared straight at me.
“Eric!” I grabbed his shoulders and pulled back hard,
hauling his head out of the vat. I continued pulling, bringing his body almost
into a stand, where we both teetered.
“I can’t hold you,” I shouted, as if his injury caused
deafness. For a moment he seemed to know
someone was trying to help him. He stood. If I had been thinking clearly, I’d
have recognized this was an anomaly, a slight moment when laws of physics hold
before gravity takes over. But I wasn’t thinking. I was yelling, “You’re going
to be okay,” trying to keep him standing. However, I couldn’t hold him. He was
much too heavy. His body toppled to the floor, taking me down with him.
My encouragement changed to, “Help!”
The smell of his charred flesh invaded my nostrils, causing
my stomach to churn. I gagged, pushed, and wiggled to free myself from
underneath him. Finally, I yelled, innocently, but stupidly, “Get off me.”
Call it pure, straight-up terror.
I struggled to breathe, each breath triggering me to gag.
Holding my breath, I wiggled, scooted, pushed-- wriggled,
scooted, and pushed some more, desperately trying to escape. But my
110-pound—possibly 120-pound body—couldn’t match his solid 200 pounds. However,
somehow, I slid beneath his shoulder and arm, relieving the heavier weight of
his chest and stomach. I crawled out from under him. Then I saw his white
chef’s hat lying underneath the tub. And something else--donut dough?
I rushed to the sink and vomited.
CHAPTER TWO
Having retched all I’d eaten for the last week, I staggered
outside. The chilling air hit me like an
ice-packed glove, giving me a good cold slap to wake me up. I raced to my car. “Where’s my phone?” I
demanded of no one. In my tote, I found basic makeup, a Molly Cambridge mystery
book with Julia Child as a main character, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,
Oreo cookies, and a can of Mountain Dew. I am no Julia Child. I’d considered
making a New Year’s resolution to eat healthier. Since I'm not committed yet, I
decided to enjoy all the unhealthy—but oh, so yummy foods.
The yummy thought rolled through my stomach, which dipped
and climbed like a roller coaster with thoughts about eating. Finally, my
fingers moved against something hard and thin.
There it is. I tapped my
iPhone, entered my log-in number, and dialed 911.
“Appleton Police.”
“I am at Mr. Yummy’s Donut shop on the corner of Pacific and
Queen. I found the owner, Eric Kenny, in
the back of the shop. There’s been an accident.”
“Anyone hurt?” The operator asked as she repeated the name
and address.
“Yes. I think he’s
dead.”
“Your name?
“Tuesday Welsh.”
The operator asked, “Can you get a pulse?”
Pulse? I didn’t check
for a pulse.
I should have checked for a pulse.
He seemed to briefly stand on his own. Could he still be alive? How could he still
be alive with one side of his head charred so badly, and his eye scorched? I
couldn’t get my feet to move to go back and check.
“Get someone here,
fast.” I clicked off and moved around to the front of the car. Vomited, again.
By the time I got hold of myself—good enough to where I
could stand without further retching—two black patrol cruisers, POLICE painted
in a slanted stripe of silver, arrived. Red and blue lights flashing, more
cruisers screeched into the parking lot. And, another volley of high-pitched
sirens warned of danger.
“He’s in there.” I
pointed towards the back of the shop.
The officers ran to the back door. A fire truck pulled into
the lot, and behind it, the paramedics. A patrol cruiser drove up and parked
parallel, blocking the entrance.
It was still early
morning. How many people stopped this
morning, saw the door locked, and went off to work? Why didn’t they smell something and go around
to the back of the shop? Why did I?
More police arrived, what looked like the entire force. They
followed the path others had taken into the donut shop. Someone had unlocked
the front door. It stood open. An officer stood inside on guard.
I wanted to leave, but I knew I couldn’t. When you call the police, especially when
finding someone hurt or dead, the police are going to want some kind of
statement. The only thing I told an officer who asked was that I craved a Maple
Bar before work. I smelled something unpleasant. Followed my nose. And…
My feet were freezing, so I decided there wasn’t any need
for me to stand outside my car waiting for them to come to me. They knew where
to find me. While I had only lived in Appleton since Harley and I went into
business together, Harley grew up in Appleton.
He had friends in the department. Many of the officers would recognize
me because of him.
Getting into my car
with the front window offering a wide view of what was happening, I sat
shivering my butt off with the heater full on.
Then, Carl Hansen, one of the EMTs, surprised me by knocking
on the side window. I lowered the window, letting in more frosty air.
Carl said, “I heard it was you who found him, Tuesday.”
I couldn’t seem to get my lips working. My chin was
trembling.
“A damn shame,” he said.
“Poor ol’guy. Are you okay?”
I nodded. Then, like
a child first learning to talk, I babbled out, “I’m fine.”
He said, “If you think getting here a few minutes earlier
may have helped, give that thought up. He wouldn’t have had a chance once he
hit that hot oil. If he had survived, he would have been horribly scarred and
would have wished you had arrived late." We both looked over to the shop.
His glance came back to rest on me. “Hell, look, you’re shaking. You’re going
into shock.”
He leaned against the car as if he was no longer in a hurry.
“You may feel worse later.
Headaches. Stomach problems. If
you can’t sleep tonight, call your doctor.
He can give you something to settle your nerves for the next few
days. The best thing to do is just to
forget it ever happened.”
“Thanks. But really,
I’m f…f...fine," I stammered. All I wanted to do at that very moment was
go home and pull the covers over my head.
“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” He turned. “You take care.” He left and moved
towards his rig.
I raised my window back up and waited. In a few minutes, someone else headed over to
my car. He stopped and spoke to an officer, gesturing towards a cruiser that
was obstructing traffic. Then he continued over to me. I got out. While I
hadn’t met him, I knew who he was.
“Tuesday Welsh?”
“Yes.”
He introduced himself. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Lieutenant
Fox.”
I had seen him at Mr. Yummy’s. In his early 40s, he had
rugged good looks and an athletic body. His piercing blue eyes reflected a
determination and seriousness for his profession. Exemplifying for his officers
and community that he was a no-nonsense type of guy for keeping Appleton safe.
He said, “I’m told you called in the incident. Can you tell me what happened
here?” He was holding a small, black writing pad. One of those with the spiral wire on top. He
flipped a couple of pages. Then flicked his pen. “Name?”
“Tuesday Welsh of Davidson and Welsh Investigations.”
No eyebrows raised. Who I was and where I worked wasn’t a
surprise. He jotted my name down on the spiral pad. “Can you tell me what
happened? Begin from your arrival, please.”
I began the
sequence. “I stopped for donuts for the
office.”
“Your partner is Harley Davidson, right?”
I nodded. He didn’t jot this piece of information down. But
he commented, “I heard he took off for LA.”
Thinking he was referencing my purchasing for the office, I
corrected what I’d said. “Well, I wasn’t stopping to get donuts for the
officer, per se. I was in the mood for a Maple Bar.”
He didn’t make note of my choice of donut. “So you stopped
for a donut. The time?”
“Maybe ten, twenty minutes ago. I left the house seven
minutes before nine.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“We open at nine and I promised Harley I’d open the office
early while he was gone. But, it was colder this morning. And there was ice on
my windshield. And I…”
He nodded. “Eight fifty-five a.m. will be close enough.” He
asked, “Was the shop open when you got here?”
“No. I found him when
I saw that the lights were on in the shop but the front door was locked. I
couldn’t see any donuts in the display case. I found it strange and decided to
investigate.” I offered, “Since I stop by regularly,” and interjected, “and a lot of us do,” then
continued, “ I knew it wasn’t like the owner not to have the place open,
especially by this time.”
He asked if the front door was locked upon arrival while
making a note.
“But the lights were on,” I stressed. “And the sign on the
window said open.” I paused, then offered, “Mr. Yummy’s is never closed. Not in
the mornings.”
Lieutenant Fox nodded agreement with this history as he
scratched his pen on the paper. “What prompted you to go to the back door?”
“I smelled something.” Remembering the assault on my
nostrils caused my stomach to roll again.
I gulped and took a breath before saying, “When I went around back, I
saw the back door was slightly open. I called in to let him know the front door
was locked. I thought maybe he wasn't aware that the girl who usually works the
register wasn’t here today. Or maybe he was handling the shop all by himself.”
I’m not sure that was the exact reasoning that went through
my mind. But now, it seemed like the logical sequence for my decision-making. I
added, “When no one answered, I went in.”
“Why?” he asked. He nodded toward the parking lot. “Were
there any cars in the parking lot when you arrived?”
The question caught me off guard. I had been thinking of
Maple Bars, not automobiles. But he was right. The parking lot had been empty.
It still was except for emergency vehicles.
“I don’t know why. The owner is always here in the mornings,
or so I thought. Having the front door
locked felt strange. And I saw no donuts in the display case when I looked
through the window.” I added as if the next fact was paramount to my
exploration, “The sign says OPEN.” I
moved on, “I was going to leave when I smelled something. Like someone burning
garbage. The smell was coming from around the building. And, well, when I saw
the door open, I just naturally thought to check.”
He made a couple of notes, nodded, then asked, “What did you
do next?”
“I remember shouting that the front door was closed. Only,
the smell was terrible. So, I went in further and I found him folded over into
the fryer. I thought he’d somehow fallen in.”
“He wasn't on the floor where he is now?"
“No. I pulled him out.” That made my chin quavered with the memory, so it sounded
more like,“I…I…puuulllllled…emmm out.”
“By yourself?” Lieutenant Fox asked. “Eric Kenny’s a big
man.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I had to get him out because I thought
he was hurt. But, I couldn’t hold him. He fell on me.”
He asked. “Did you turn off the fryer?”
Did I? I shook my head. “I didn’t touch it. I didn’t check to see if it was off or on.
But it must have been off because the oil wasn’t hot. I didn’t get burned when
trying to get him out.”
Lieutenant Fox again made a note and then gave his opinion.
“It’s probably fixed with an automatic turnoff valve for when the machine gets
too hot.” He next asked, “Did you notice anything moved around? Out of place?”
“No. I’ve never been
in the back of the shop before. I wouldn’t have noticed if anything was
different.”
He closed his notebook. Turned and gave a glance over to the
shop and then out toward the street. A crowd was forming beyond the police
perimeter. Most people had put on coats before coming out, figuring what was
going on might take a while. Others hugged themselves and stood flapping their
arms for warmth.
There is nothing like tragedy to stir up an audience.
He asked, “And you’re sure that no one else was here? You
didn’t see anyone leave? Another car in the lot?”
I shook my head. We
watched as Eric's body was wheeled out on a gurney in a black bag from the back
door. Ahead of the gurney walked an older man carrying a steel case. He lifted
his eyes over to the Lieutenant and me, then said something to Carl Hansen, who
continued on by himself. The man stood
and pulled the collar of his coat higher on his neck. He turned his head to
look at the crowd, then raised his gaze to the buildings and beyond. He seemed
to peer into the heavens.
I wondered what he was thinking after having just inspected
the damaged body of someone he probably knew well. Was he contemplating life and death? Or was
he thinking how ironic it was for Eric to die doing what he did every morning
of every day of the week, frying donuts? This thought then caused me to realize
how we live most of our lives thinking about and fearing death. When the moment
can happen sooner than expected.
Or maybe I was the one feeling suddenly philosophical, and
he was simply checking out the weather.
Clouds piled overhead, weakening the morning’s light. Maybe he was only
wondering, Is it going to snow?
He walked over, giving me a courtesy nod. He chewed on his
salt-and-pepper mustache before saying, “Terrible thing to happen before
Christmas.”
“What do you
think? His heart?” Lieutenant Fox asked
him.
“I don’t want to say
until I get a better look at him. But he hasn’t been dead long. I’d say two to
three hours. Rigor hasn’t in. I did
notice trauma to the back of his head.”
“He fell when I tried to get him out of the fryer,” I said.
“That may explain it. I’ll get a closer look at the
hospital. If I find anything suspicious, I’ll need to send him over to the
County Coroner. And it’ll be a couple of days before they get to an autopsy.
Especially with the holiday around the corner. But Eric was getting on in
years. Eighty-two or three, I believe. If there’s nothing to this head injury,
it wouldn’t surprise me if it was his heart or a stroke. There is one thing for
sure. If he wasn’t dead before he fell into that hot oil, the damage he sustained
would have killed him.” He brushed the hairs of his mustache down over his top
lip with his fingers. “Hell of a way for
a good man to go.”
Lieutenant Fox nodded toward me. “This here is Tuesday
Welsh. She was the one who found him. She works with Harley Davidson.” He
introduced, “This is Dr. Scott, Appleton’s medical examiner.”
We shook hands. My hand was icy. I freaked out a little in
feeling how warm his hand was. He said to me, “Good to meet you.” He said to
Lieutenant Fox, “Eric Kenny deserved better.”
I agreed. “Best donuts in the state.”
Both men stared at me. Then they looked away as the
ambulance bleeped and left. “I’d better get to the hospital,’ Dr. Scott said.
“I’ll do my rounds and then check Eric before heading back to the office.”
He turned as if to leave, then said, “Tell Chief Daly I’ll
have my report to him sometime tomorrow.”
Blurp bluurp’ the ambulance signaled as it pulled out
onto Queen Avenue. Dr. Scott repeated, “I’ll just do a preliminary. No reason to do a full autopsy if it’s not
necessary.” He sadly shook his head and commented, “Damn shame.”
CHAPTER THREE
Davidson & Welsh Investigations is located downtown on
Second Street, across from the Owl Café. Harley told me that the city center
had been dead for several years after larger stores like Fred Meyer, Walmart,
and Sam’s Club began razing the small-store industry. And fast-food joints
emptied family dining restaurants. However, in the last couple of years, there
has been a zeal to re-establish the city’s history to its location on the banks
of the Willamette River. Now, several small specialty stores, a popular steak house, and other fine dining
populate its banks downtown for an atmospheric view.
Besides, Harley said he liked the office downtown because he
wanted to do his part in showing the burbs the significance of continuing
history. Although, with Appleton’s population below twenty thousand, I am not
sure if you can call anything beyond the downtown area the burbs.
I had no argument where we’d hang our shingle. I was just
happy to be doing something I enjoyed and thought I was halfway good at.
The Willamette River
is a tributary of the Columbia River. One of its largest tributaries, actually.
The Willamette flows almost two hundred miles, creating a valley named after
it. “Go West young man,” was the call to
immigrants and those seeking a better life—both braving the prairie wilds and
seeking Oregon. The Willamette’s waters ran high in the winter and low in the
summer. And was full of fish.
The Appleton area was founded around 1840. I think its best
feature is the architecture that claims its history still having so many
buildings from that period.
Our 1908 building is called Italianate. The front faces 2nd
Street, but we are on the corner of 2nd
Street and Washington Blvd. Harley’s grandparents offered it to us
when they heard we were setting up a business.
Harley’s an only child and the apple-eye of both his parents
and grandparents. I’d say spoiled, but that’s probably my jealous side showing.
Jealous because I am the middle child of three. I still jokingly test my father
to see if he can name us in sequence. He remembers the first, the last, and
stumbles over me. Or that may have become his joke. My mother says he was the one who argued to
name me Tuesday. The day of the week I was born.
The building has a downstairs offering a lobby, two private
offices, a small storage-coffee-lunch area, and a conference room should we
have enough business to conference about. The walls are painted stark white,
and artificial plants break up the whiteness along with framed quotes to keep
our clients hopeful:
I DON’T MIND A LITTLE BIT OF DANGER.
IT'S ALWAYS THE
LEAST PERSON YOU SUSPECT.
THERE’S A
CONTRADICTION HERE. IF I TOOK YOUR DIRTY MONEY,
YOU WOULDN’T TRUST
MY HONESTY.
Harley and I both devour mystery novels. He’s a noir buff.
He had these hung before I moved in: Hammet; Edgar Allan Poe is the best, and
original; and Ross MacDonald.
The quote that I found and liked, wanting to add my
personality, I put in my private office:
AMAZING HOW
QUICKLY SOMEONE ELSE’S PROBLEMS BECOME YOURS.
TROUBLE CREATES A
VACUUM INTO WHICH THE REST OF US GET SUCKED.
It’s a quote taken from Sue Grafton’s novel M is for
Malice. But, I don’t pretend to be a Kinsey Millhone.
Harley lives upstairs, where there is a small bedroom, kitchen, and bath. The
building offers two entrances, a front door, and a door off the second floor to
the outside stairs and parking spaces on the side toward Washington Avenue.
Not planning to stay long, I parked on the street. Unlocking
the front door, the office opened to what we call the lobby, which is really
a receptionist’s desk, two visitor's
chairs, and a small couch. The building
is brick and wood, with large ceiling wood beams. The wood flooring is new, but
matches the coloring of the other wood, to blend in for a cozy, relaxed
atmosphere. Professional, but mirroring our company policy to offer our clients
a quality of reliance and confidentiality they can trust. The small storage
room is large enough for a small refrigerator, a Mr. Coffee, a copy machine,
and a small shelving area. Beyond the lobby are two private offices, each with
a large desk, comfortable client chairs, and a wall of file cabinets.
While a receptionist might add a more professional
appearance, Harley refused to hire one until accounts were all in the black. We
fought over who should sit at the desk and welcome drop-ins. Guess who he
thought should sit at the reception desk in case a prospective client dropped
in without an appointment? Not Harley. I
called him a sexist. He argued back that he wasn’t a sexist. Saying
emphatically that clients expected a woman to greet them. Plus, he continued to
argue, that he’d put more money into the partnership than I had, and his family
offered us the office rent-free until we got on our feet.
See, spoiled.
Thus, logically, or
per Harley's logic, he should get top
billing and be the first to use a private office.
At first, I rebelled. When I came to work, he’d be in his
office, and I would walk straight to my private office. If the phone rang, I
refused to answer it, and he’d finally pick it up. That showed him. But, I got
bored sitting all alone. And, when he did answer the phone, I’d have to get up,
go over to the doorway, and lean a hard ear to see who it was. Now, I’ve taken
to sitting at the front desk. I don’t mind that much. And sometimes, when
business is slow and Harvey is out, I go into my private office and take a nap.
Closing the door behind me, I flipped on the overhead lights
and switched on the thermostat. I pulled off my coat, hanging it on an antique
coat rack I got at an “out of business sale.”
Then I went in to make a pot of coffee. I was now almost two hours late
in opening. Definitely not my fault if Harley had called to check on me. Besides, I’d hurried, not taking the time to
have breakfast. But, after finding Eric, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever gain an
appetite back. Definitely, Maple Bars were off my list for a while.
I opened the appointment book setting on the receptionist’s
desk, noting the day’s scheduled appointments.
Much like the prior day’s blank listings. Just how was I supposed to
handle such a busy day? After what I’d just gone through, I was pretty happy to
have a blank slant. I was exhausted. And I was still shivering goose-bumps each
time I let the memory of Eric floating in the fryer back in my mind.
The odor from the baking room and Eric, when he fell on top
of me, had penetrated beyond my coat into my clothes and hair. I needed a
shower. I needed to go home and change. Actually, I wanted to go home and lie
down for a while.
I stared up at the
ceiling. Harley had given me strict rules that his apartment was off-bounds.
But, he was out of town. He’d never know.
Only, while I craved darkness, safety, and solace, my mind
refused to quiet, swirling with questions. Hadn’t others thought it strange to
find the shop wasn’t open for business? Was I the only one who had gone around
to the back? I must not have been. The back door was slightly open. Closed
badly, or had someone come and gone before I’d gotten there?
And what happened to his teenage helper who sold the donuts
for him until he’d got the day’s baking finished? The girl was new. But, she’d
been there every day lately when I’d stopped by. What was her name? Debbie? She
said she went to Appleton High School.
I knew Eric was married with grown children. I stopped in
the late afternoon about a week or so ago to get a coffee to go. Alone in the
shop, Eric chatted with me, telling me the day’s news as he’d heard it. He put
a sugared doughnut down next to the cup of coffee. “On the house,” he’d said.
I remembered a bit of
the conversation. He mentioned how it was getting colder and the news was
saying we might be in for a White Christmas. “We haven’t had one since my kids
were small. Snow. But not at Christmas.” He remarked how he hoped it didn’t
keep the grandchildren from visiting. “We only get to see them on holidays.”
From prior conversations, I knew he had one son who worked in the tech industry
and lived in Northern California. A daughter and her family lived somewhere in
Eastern Oregon.
Harley’s parents probably knew Eric and his wife. Knew the
children, too. But, if the Kenny children went to Appleton High, they would
have graduated at least ten years ahead of Harley.
The thought that maybe Mrs. Kenny would appreciate a visit
traveled through my mind. Of course, I was sure the police had already visited
her and made the notification. But maybe she would have questions they couldn’t
answer. Although, I don't know how much more I could tell them than they
already had in my statement. However, maybe I could ease her mind by letting
her know Eric was not alive when I got there. And how I thought, like Carl
said, he must have died quickly. And since I was the one to find him, Harley
might think my going was a good idea, as a representative of Davidson &
Welsh, to offer our sympathy.
I decided not to act on the thought. At least for the
moment. Best to let the idea set for a bit.
The message light on the console wasn’t lit, so I checked
the computer. No email messages,
either. I picked up the to-do list
Harley had left of possible companies to solicit for their security business. I
busied myself by creating an Excel file with columns labeled as Date, Company,
Address, Phone, Type of Potential Business, Send Further Information, Call
Again, and Forget-Blatantly Rude. I entered all the potential client names into
the Excel file and considered calling the first number. But, I was too antsy. And I had already been
fairly productive. I logged out of Excel,
And then, I remembered I’d made coffee. I went in and grabbed a cup. Taking a sip, I
thought about my morning and decided I deserved a break after all I’d gone
through since leaving the house. And, I told myself, if I didn’t feel any
better after drinking my coffee, I’d go home.
Without a stitch of guilt, since I'd completed my Excel call
list, I logged onto Amazon. I shopped by
clicking selected items I thought I might want to buy, and sending them into
the Amazon cart. There they would stay until tomorrow. It’s my Amazon Rule: Never Buy When Bored.
My Amazon rule doesn’t stop me from shopping. I can look and click all day if I
want. However, the rule within the Amazon Rule is that I cannot proceed to
checkout for a list twenty-four hours after placing the items in the cart. Having
this part of the rule keeps me from adding purchases to my already close-to-max
credit card.
However, I shopped for only thirty minutes before getting
bored with Amazon shopping. I was still agitated by what happened at Mr.
Yummys. And finding Eric Kenny, dead. I may not be a Julia Child. Or as good a
detective as Kinsey Millhone. But, I knew Eric Kenny. And, I felt having
stopped in for a donut this morning when I was already late, and negating my
promise to Harley to be on time wasn't a coincidence I couldn't just shrug off.
I logged off the computer. Left the office.
I traveled across town on Washington Boulevard, looping
around back to Pacific Blvd. I knew the
Kennys lived on the other side of Waverly Lake, a park where, in the summer,
you can find paddle boaters and people picnicking. A housing development where
they lived behind the lake provided homes with backyards leading to bike
trails.
The Kennys' house was a two-story Cape Cod with large
windows offering views out toward the lake. A bright, cranberry-red painted
front door held an artificial Christmas wreath snuggly wired to the door
knocker. Putting my finger on the doorbell, a Westminster chime sounded within
the house. I heard heavy footsteps. The
door opened.
Eric Kenny stood leaning on crutches with his foot in an
orthopedic boot.
KEEP IT SIMPLE S….
I must say
this to myself at least ten times a day. Keep It Simple.
When my
life becomes too busy, I tend to forget to live, which is the prime definition
of life. I know I am not keeping it simple when I start thinking of what I need
to do before I get out of bed in the morning. When at midday, I start thinking
about what I won’t get done. Exactly how many moments have I been given in
life? How many heartbeats? And how many do I want to waste?
I remind
myself to take it moment by moment as much as I can. Be mindful.
Back to
Simple… I wanted to write Cookin’ Up Murder just for fun. My other
novels have complex themes. In the Lillian Dove Mystery Series, Lillian Dove
stopped putting vodka to her lips and finds taking on life harder. How do you
take on a day without self-medicating? The series starts with a historical arson
murder case and moves to more complex cases. Without a Doubt (book five
in the series (2024) sets Lillian on a quest to find her missing brother and
realize she is exactly where she should be. Has she got to this point by free
will or fate? Of course, there is a giggle or two. Lillian is a fun girl.
I take the
weekend off from writing by writing something a little simpler-- with fewer
dark issues. Cookin’Up Murder,
Harley Davidson and Tuesday Welsh have challenges, but their partnership and
cases are challenging enough. When Tuesday goes to buy a Maple Bar at the local
donut shop, she finds the owner in the fryer. Now, the what, who, when, where,
and why need to be sorted. Harley helps with that.
The novel
becomes a weekend crossword ( chapters) to finish before Monday. And I hope my
readers get a weekend of enjoyment. I page the books specifically so they can
be read in a weekend’s time.
Ah,
if only it were that easy. But, the plot stays cozier thus, my writing time
flies by.
Keep
It Simple…Silly.
At
least find that time in your week when you can unclutter and feel your heart
beating, air inflating your lungs, and you take in what is around you. Plus! Be
sure to pick up a fun book to read!
Let
me know how you have made your life simpler. Or what type of books you find
fun. You can contact me at dj@djadamson.com.
Or you can leave a comment or question here. The first 5 who do will receive a
FREE digital of Cookin’ Up Murder.
D. J. Adamson is an accomplished author known for her captivating storytelling and engaging characters. She has established herself as a prominent figure in the world of mystery and suspense fiction. Her work draws inspiration from classic detective novels and contemporary thrillers. Adamson's literary journey began at a young age, and she continued the journey through her life, recently embarking on her work with novels and her exceptional ability to create immersive worlds and multifaceted characters. She developed her own unique style that combines elements of suspense, intrigue and psychological depth. Beyond her novels, Adamson has contributed to various literary journals and anthologies, sharing her insights and expertise with fellow writers and enthusiasts. Her work has gained a loyal following and her novels praised for their intricate plotting and masterful storytelling. When not immersed in the world of writing, Adamson enjoys the Central CA coast, traveling, and the outdoors. She also engages with her readers through various platforms, fostering a strong connection and appreciation for the support she receives from her dedicated fan base. Readers can connect with her through her website at www.djadamson.com.
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