Free Fatally Frosted by Jessica Beck

bit of family I had left.”
    Heather’s parents had died while she was still in high school. They’d gone on a camping trip without her, and a heater had malfunctioned in their motor home, filling it with deadly carbon monoxide. And now, two weeks from her twenty-first birthday, she’d lost her aunt. The reason I knew Heather’s birthday was approaching was because we shared the same day and month, something that had bonded us closer when she’d been younger.
    No matter how grown up she looked like on the outside, this was a frightened and sad little girl standing in front of me. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s got to be really hard on you.”
    Her tears started to slowly escape, though neither of us mentioned them. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I shouldn’t come charging in here blaming you. You’re just about the only friend I have left in this town these days. Suzanne, I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
    “You don’t owe me an apology. I just hope the police find out who killed her, and soon.”
    “Me, too.” She wiped at her cheeks, swiping away the tears, then said, “I’ve got to go start planning her funeral. I’ll be staying at her house until I get this all sorted out.”
    “You could always stay with Momma and me. You’re welcome, you know that. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”
    “I’ll be all right. It will give me some time to grieve by myself. But thanks for the offer, Suzanne. I really do appreciate it.”
    As she walked away, I saw Heather’s shoulders slump. I knew losing her aunt had been a blow to her, and I realized just how much it must have shaken her. Seeing her like that gave me one more reason to find out who had killed her aunt, and why.
    I locked the shop door, then I stared at the empty racks on the display shelves inside. There would be no food donation today, though I had promised Father Pete I’d have something for them at the church. The sad thing was, the folks who counted on my contributions and needed food would have nothing to eat from my kitchen that day, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
    I called the church to tell Father Pete that I wouldn’t be able to help after all.
    The only problem was that his secretary, Roberta Dowd, wouldn’t put me through to him.
    “I’m sorry, Suzanne, but he can’t be disturbed. His orders were most specific, and I mean to follow them.”
    “Roberta, I just need a second of his time. I won’t take long, I promise.”
    She paused, then said, “I didn’t want to come out and say it, but I should tell you that we’re not interested in any of your food donations at the moment.”
    “Father Pete actually said that?” I thought we had a better relationship than that. What kind of minister ducked someone who was only trying to help?
    “He shouldn’t have to say it. Given what happened today, do you honestly think we’d want any contributions from your shop? How do we know that another donut isn’t tainted as well?”
    I tried not to scream as I said, “I wasn’t calling about making a donation. I wanted him to know that I wouldn’t be able to help out today after all.”
    “That’s for the best then, isn’t it?” she said smugly. “I’m still not certain it sends the right message to the people we’re trying to help to hand your donuts out to them. We can’t afford to drive anyone off. They have nowhere else to turn. You understand, don’t you, dear?”
    “Oh, I understand all right,” I said as I hung up, afraid to stay on the line any longer because of what I might say. The nerve of that woman. If I could have talked directly to Father Pete, I might have been able to explain what had really happened, but with his secretary acting as a gatekeeper, I had a better chance of talking to the president of the United States. Another, more chilling thought struck me. Was there a chance she’d been blocking my call on his orders? Was I suddenly our town’s very own Typhoid