Flourless to Stop Him by Nancy J. Parra Page A

was mortally wounded.”
    “Knife wounds,” Grandma surmised as I plated her donut and handed it to her.
    “Hard to tell,” I said. “The body was in the bathtub, wrapped in the shower curtain, and there was blood pretty much everywhere. Not that this is decent conversation for breakfast.”
    “I lived through the Great Depression,” Grandma said and bit into her donut. “I can eat just about anything at any time.” She patted her stomach. “Got the weight to prove it.”
    I popped a second pan of donuts into the oven. It was nearly six and my assistant would be here by six thirty, when I opened the front door. So far I had donuts and muffins and Danish already in the glass containers. Cookies would be next along with two cakes that I had baked last night and frosted this morning.
    Variety is the spice of life, or so I’ve been told.
    “Unless you know how was he killed,” I said as I scooped more cookie dough onto a cooled sheet.
    “I do. My sources tell me he was stabbed.”
    “Hmm.” I frowned. “I didn’t see any knives.”
    “You didn’t really look for them, either,” Grandma said and picked up her plate. “I’ll try the frosting now. Let you know what I think.”
    I dropped the small scoop into the dough bowl, wiped my hands on a towel, and took her plate. “True, I didn’t look for a weapon.” I plucked a donut off the wire rack, threw it into the vat of frosting, twisted, and pulled it off, letting the frosting ooze over the donut and onto her plate.
    “Two would be nice.”
    “I thought you needed to watch your sugar intake,” I scolded and put the plate with one donut down in front of her.
    Grandma cackled her booming scratchy laugh until she coughed. “I’m always watching my sugar, kiddo. It doesn’t mean I don’t like an extra donut now and then. Especiallyif they’re good-for-you baked and not fried.” She wiggled her eyebrows and bit into the donut. “Mmmm, mmmm.”
    I shook my head. “So what we have is a dead best friend in a hotel room rented in my brother’s name. The only thing saving Tim is the fact that he works at night.”
    “That’s the thing,” Grandma said around a second bite. “The estimated time of death is from four until six in the evening.”
    “Wow.” I pulled out the chair and sat down hard. “Whoever framed Tim knew his schedule.”
    “Yes.” Grandma nodded sagely. “Tim usually sleeps until four or five. He’s not likely to have an alibi during that time.”
    “Why kill Harold?” I wondered. “Clearly this is more than identity theft.”
    “Identity theft?”
    “Tim came by this morning to ask if he could stay with me. I said yes, then I told Tim that whoever rented the room could have simply stolen his identity.” I shrugged. “It’s plausible.”
    “Not if they did it and then killed Tim’s best friend.” Grandma frowned and handed me her empty coffee mug.
    I got up and refilled her mug, handed it to her, and went back to my cookie dough. “You’re right. There are too many coincidences.”
    “I’m glad Tim is staying with you,” Grandma said. “With Mindy coming into town he’ll have an alibi from now on.”
    “If it’s not too late.”
    “We’ll have to see how it plays out,” Grandma said. “I’ll do a background check on Tim to make sure everything is okay there. I’ll head over to the courthouse to do some digging into Harold’s background later today. There has to be a motive for murder. Which means Harold was more than a victim at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
    “Tim’s social security number is in the family Bible,” I said. Truthfully, everyone’s social security number waslisted in the Bible. It was Mom’s way of keeping track of us. The social security number went down beside our name, birthdate, baptismal date, first communion, and confirmation. There was even a line for our wedding dates—although mine was crossed out.
    “I’ve got it,” Grandma said and tapped her temple. Then she