Raspberry Mojito Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 20 by Susan Gillard

go?” Heather asked.
    “No,” Amy whispered. “No, no, no.
Dave! You get away from those donuts.” She turned dropped, the Taser in
Heather’s bag, then sprinted down the hall and into the living room.
    “Here we go,” Heather muttered. 
    “Dave, you total pig! Heather, you’ve
got to get in here. It’s carnage. There’s raspberry jam everywhere. And mint
glaze. And, wait a second, when did we make chocolate – oh. That’s not
chocolate.”
    Heather grimaced. “I’ll get the
towels.”
    “Never mind the towels, bring a
shovel. Bring detergent. Heck, bring a cleaning service.” Amy’s voice broke
from the pressure of holding back her mirth.
    “Are there any donuts left?”
    “How could you even ask that
question?” Amy retorted.
    Heather sighed and set off toward the
kitchen. At least she’d only left two of them on the coffee table.
     

Chapter 14
    Peter Hill’s suburb was quiet on a
Friday morning, apart from the distant laughter of a couple of kids. The sun
had come out in full force and chased off the remains of the clouds.
    Heather adjusted her handbag on her
shoulder and strode down the sidewalk. Amy scuttled along beside her and
glanced up and down the road.
    “This is like a secret operation,” she
whispered.
    “Not really. We’re just going to pay
the old man a visit and ask him a couple of questions. It’s hardly espionage.”
Heather tucked her hair behind her ear.
    Last night’s outburst from Peter Hill
had set her sleuthin’ cogs in motion again. He’d been so out there, so crazed
to confront her about interviewing his daughter-in-law.
    And that made her wonder what other
crazy feats he’d achieved.
    “Ryan got me the address,” Heather
said and checked the number she’d scrawled on the back of her palm on her way
out of the house that morning. “So, it should be good.”
    They hurried along for another minute,
then took a sharp left and entered another street. Trees dotted the sidewalk
and sprawling suburban homes peered out from behind fences and verdant gardens.
    “Boy, somebody has money,” Amy
whispered.
    Heather pressed a finger to her lips,
then pointed to the house across the road. “That’s his place.”
    “His car is in the drive. I bet he’s
home, plotting his next verbal attack,” Amy replied.
    Heather beckoned for her bestie to
follow, then strode across the road. She opened the low, white picket gate and
stormed up the garden path.
    “She’s a woman on a mission,” Amy
said.
    “Yeah, but I don’t need commentary to
get the mission done,” Heather replied, and stuck out her tongue.
    Amy chuckled, and they took the stairs
together, two at a time. They halted in front of the door, and Heather raised
her fist. Amy placed her hand over it.
    “What –?”
    “At the end of the porch. Look,” Amy
whispered.
    Heather turned her head and sucked in
a breath.
    A man in a shabby coat, his back
toward her, bent over a box on the end of the porch. Scratching noises and the
shuffle of fabric filled the space between them and him.
    “I swear, every time we go places
together, something weird happens,” Amy whispered. “I’m starting to think we’re
the weird ones.”
    Heather patted her handbag, then
reached inside and brought out her Taser. She clicked off the safety and raised
it.
    “Hello,” she said.
    The man froze mid-rustle. His
shoulders stiffened beneath the shabby coat. He shifted his feet.
    “Turn around, please.”
    Amy grasped Heather’s free arm and
stared at the man’s back. “Creepy,” she breathed.
    Heather resisted the urge to hum a
tune. Thriller by Michael Jackson, perhaps.
    The man rose and rotated on the spot.
His beard appeared first, and then his beady eyes.
    “Geoff.” Heather exhaled.
    “This is becoming a regular
occurrence,” Amy said and rolled her eyes. She released Heather’s arm and
strode toward the beast of a man. “What on earth are you doing here?”
    Geoff’s gaze shifted from the women to
his left.
    Heather