Dying for a Donut (Laurel McKay Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  PRAISE FOR CINDY SAMPLE

  “Don't miss the Laurel McKay books. Like me, you'll be ‘dying’ to read the next one.”

  –Brenda Novak, USA Today Bestselling Author

  “Dying for a Donut is a riveting story with snappy dialog, a stellar plot, entertaining characters, and a first-rate mystery. It doesn't get any better than that! Cindy Sample writes a wonderful murder mystery!

  – Heather Haven, IPPY Award-Winning Author

  "Cindy Sample has cooked up another delicious mystery starring Laurel McKay, soccer mom extraordinaire. Dying for a Donut offers romance, intrigue and fun set in California's scenic Gold Country. If you're hungry for a 5-star cozy mystery, you'll be glad Dying for a Donut heads the menu."

  – Mary Beth Magee, National Reviewer, Examiner.com

  "Quirky narrative peppered with quips. An intoxicating recipe for fun... Dying for a Daiquiri is a must read for the romantic mystery reader and contemporary romance reader!"

  – Connie Payne, Once upon a Romance Reviews

  Cindy Sample’s writing is positively fun, imaginative and all around tantalizing.”

  – Romance Junkies

  “Cindy Sample knows how to weave a story that satisfies and excites. Time literally flew by as I turned the pages…simultaneously harrowing, exciting, tender, and uplifting, a true who-done-it combined with a romance that will warm the heart and sheets.”

  – Long and Short Reviews

  “Sample’s sleuth is an endearing character readers will adore.”

  – RT Book Reviews

  “Cindy Sample has mastered the art of REAL dialogue. The characters are wacky and believable. Any woman who constantly finds herself in awkward situations will love this book. This is a story that will make you wonder "who did it" and make you laugh out loud. Of course, the romance simply is divine!”

  – BookReviewsRus

  “All of the elements of an excellent cozy mystery. Interesting characters, plot and setting. Fast paced writing. I struggled to figure out what it was that stood out that made me really enjoy the book and I decided it was the tone. Dying for a Dance is a feel-good book, it makes you smile.”

  – Examiner.com

  “I have rarely been more cheered up by spending time with a book. Dying for a Dance is the perfect antidote to a bout of the winter blues.”

  – Kings River Life Magazine

  “Dying for a Date is packed with zany characters, humorous situations, and laugh-out-loud narrative. Consider reading this book in one sitting, because once you start, you will be reluctant to put it aside.”

  – Midwest Book Review

  DYING for a DONUT

  A Laurel McKay Mystery

  By

  Cindy Sample

  Other Books in the Laurel McKay series

  Dying for a Date (Vol. 1)

  Dying for a Dance (Vol. 2)

  Dying for a Daiquiri (Vol. 3)

  Dying for a Dude (Vol. 4)

  DYING FOR A DONUT

  By Cindy Sample

  Copyright 2015 by Cindy Sample

  Cover Art by Karen Phillips

  1st Digital & Trade Paperback Edition, 2015.

  All Rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN: 1518633749

  ISBN: 13-978-1518633744

  Visit us at www.cindysamplebooks.com

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful children, Dawn and Jeff, and to Harriet Bergstrand, my mother, my mentor and my best friend. I miss you, Mom.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I could die right now,” my grandmother announced as she clutched her chest with an arthritic hand.

  I eyed the scattered crumbs on the plate in front of her and said, “A team of Clydesdales would die if they’d eaten as many donuts as you just put away.”

  “Yes, but we’d die happy.” A broad smile creased Gran’s face. “Besides at my age, Laurel, I gotta enjoy life while I can.”

  Gran was right. Today’s excursion to Apple Tree Farm, located in the small town of Camino, fifty miles east of Sacramento, had been a perfect outing. The rolling green hills and valleys, set against a backdrop of the Sierra Nevada mountain range, were famous for their plentiful apple orchards and even more plentiful apple pastries.

  While Gran’s caloric intake far exceeded mine, I’d still managed to consume one melt-in-your-mouth glazed apple donut followed by a gooey caramel apple. I wasn’t complaining, although the waistband of my jeans felt far less accommodating than when I’d dressed this morning.

  Gran pointed her finger at me. “You’ve got caramel stuck to your face.”

  I stared down my nose but only succeeded in crossing my eyes. She handed me a paper napkin, and I swiped at my nose and cheeks. Just because outings to the area known as Apple Hill made me feel like a kid was no reason to regress to my sticky-fingered, sticky-faced childhood.

  Gran popped a final donut chunk into her mouth and smacked her lips. Her gaze roved from the bakery, located at one end of the large red barn, past the produce section laden with bins of colorful apples, pears and pumpkins, finally landing on Ye Old Candy Shoppe directly opposite us.

  “Do we have time to get more fudge before Jenna gets off work in the bakery?” Gran asked.

  I shook my head, marveling at my grandmother’s metabolism then glanced at my watch. “Jenna should be done in …” I stopped as angry voices assaulted our ears.

  Two young men, dressed in red tees emblazoned with the Apple Tree Farm logo, stormed out of the cider house building opposite the bakery. While I didn’t recognize the slight dark-haired man, I knew that the tall, hefty blond was Eric Thorson, son of Axel Thorson, the owner of Apple Tree Farm.

  Eric’s face was as red as the candied apples they sold. He shook his fist at the other teen who reminded me of a young Enrique Iglesias––trouble in tush-tight jeans. Despite being several inches shorter than his opponent, he wasn’t backing down from Eric’s threatening fist.

  I wondered what precipitated their argument and why they’d brought the fight out to the public picnic area. Even though it was nearly five p.m., several families remained seated at rustic wood tables enjoying their delectable purchases. A few people who stood in line to buy the farm’s jellies, sauces and fresh fruits, shifted their attention toward the two young men.

  “Someone’s about to get a whoopin’,” Gran said, grinning. “Do you suppose they’re fighting over a girl?”

  I shrugged. “It’s none of our business, although I hope no one gets hurt.”

  She shifted her gaze to a point over my left shoulder. “Looks like we may be involved whether you like it or not.”

  “What?” I spun around to discover the last person I’d have expected to join the altercation––my daughter, Jenna.

  Her auburn hair gleamed bright red, despite being encased in a hairnet to ensure no
errant strands landed on the pastries she sold. With that fiery hair, sparks shooting out of sapphire blue eyes and the supersized spatula in her hand, she resembled an avenging angel.

  She hurled herself between the two men, oblivious to possible injury to herself. I jumped up from the bench and joined the fray, thinking that all the two young men needed was a mature adult to calm them down so they could conduct a reasonable discussion. I reached Jenna’s side, yanked on her elbow and shoved her behind me. My daughter has four inches on my own five foot four and a quarter, but I had twenty-five (or after today’s outing, possibly thirty) pounds to offset the vertical difference between us.

  “Mom,” Jenna protested as she tried to push through to the young men.

  I thrust my arm out to block her movement. “Stay out of this, Jenna.” I faced the two aggressors, prepared to mediate their argument.

  Eric swung his fist at his dark-haired opponent who ducked and countered with his own blow. Thwack!

  That’s all it took for one forty-year-old mother of two to go down for the count.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I opened my eyes to a multitude of stars twinkling overhead. Seconds later, the scent of chocolate assailed my nostrils.

  I blinked twice. My grandmother bent over me waving a thick chunk of chocolate fudge less than an inch from my nose. When I tried to rise, she shoved me back down onto the grass where I’d apparently fallen, since a few long blades tickled my neck.

  Gran grinned, her fillings glinting in the sunlight. “In the old days I’d have used smelling salts,” she said, “but I figured you’d respond better to chocolate.”

  I propelled myself into a sitting position and blinked at the small group of people standing around me. I gently touched my throbbing cheek and winced.

  “I’m so sorry, Ma’am,” said a male voice to my right. I swiveled my head around.

  Whoa. Really. Bad. Idea. A wave of nausea engulfed me, and I sensed the donut and caramel apple I’d eaten earlier careening back up my digestive tract.

  On a positive note, that was eight hundred fewer calories to exercise off.

  I stifled the urge to heave the best of Apple Tree Farm’s delights onto the shoes of the bystanders.

  “Tony didn’t mean to hurt you, Mom.” Jenna crouched next to my side.

  “It was an accident,” said the teen I presumed must be Tony.

  “Heck of a right hook, young man,” Gran said. “She’s going to have quite a shiner.”

  Shiner? That got my attention. “Do I have a black eye?” I asked. “Does anyone have a mirror I can use?”

  Gran and Jenna both said no, but their matching guilty expressions made me wonder. On Monday, I was scheduled to make a marketing presentation at Hangtown Bank in Placerville where I work. The last thing I needed was to present a battered and bruised face to the bank’s Board of Directors.

  “Tony, get off this property before I beat the crap out of you,” Eric said. He squatted next to Jenna and placed his arm possessively around her shoulder.

  She shook it off. “Leave me alone, Eric. And stop bullying Tony.”

  A loud baritone interrupted the teenage soap opera surrounding me. “What is going on here, son?” demanded the angry voice. A few seconds later, an unhappy older version of Eric stood over me. Axel Thorson thrust out a muscular arm and hoisted me off the ground.

  “Laurel, what happened to you?” Axel’s strawberry blond moustache and beard bristled with indignation.

  I glanced at Jenna and Tony. The young man looked petrified. My daughter gave a quick shake of her head, her eyes pleading with me.

  “I bumped into something,” I muttered to Axel. “Nothing to concern yourself over.”

  “Tony punched her,” Eric snarled. His fists remained clenched, ready for battle.

  “One of the boys’ arms accidentally connected with my face.” Not the best explanation, but my brain wasn’t operating at full capacity. Or even half capacity. “I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.”

  “I apologize for their behavior, Laurel,” Axel said in a solicitous tone. “How can I make it up to you? Perhaps a dozen donuts on the house?”

  My stomach roiled at the thought of more fried sugar, but my grandmother’s digestive system was made of sterner stuff.

  “Sounds good,” she replied. “We’ll take a half dozen of your glazed and another half of your cinnamon ones. Or maybe those new vanilla frosted donuts.” She smacked her lips in anticipation. “That should speed up Laurel’s recovery.”

  I started to shake my head then realized it would be less painful to go along with Axel’s suggestion.

  “Thanks for the offer,” I said to him.

  A relieved expression crossed Axel’s face. He addressed the young men. “Eric, go back to the cider house. Tony, to my office. Now.”

  Jenna protested but stopped when Tony rested his palm on her forearm. She didn’t appear to mind Tony’s gentle touch. I could tell Eric observed it as well. He stomped over to the cider house, a grim expression on his face.

  “Jenna, why don’t you take your mother and grandmother to the bakery?” Axel moved closer to examine my injury before adding, “Better get your mother some ice, too.”

  Gran and I followed Jenna back to the bakery. Since it was past closing time, the barn-like structure was empty. While I tried to think of a tactful way to grill Jenna about the young men’s argument, Gran jumped in, feet first.

  “Looks like those two young roosters were fighting over you,” Gran said, playfully punching Jenna in the arm. “Either of them make your heart twang?”

  Jenna blushed and picked up her pace, but that didn’t stop Gran’s inquisition as she trotted after my daughter.

  “The young one who knocked out your mother was kinda hot. What did he do to upset Axel’s son?”

  “Let’s get Mom some ice first,” Jenna said. “Then we’ll talk. Okay?”

  We couldn’t argue with her logic. Gran and I plopped into white plastic chairs across from one another at one of the visitor tables while Jenna scrounged up some ice for me and a dozen donuts for Gran.

  Five minutes later, I was icing my cheekbone while Gran was icing her taste buds. Jenna refrained from joining her great-grandmother. She claimed that after working weekends in the bakery for three weeks she was “off” donuts for now.

  I wondered if that philosophy could also apply to me. Would working at a candy store put me off chocolate? Was that even possible?

  My focus shifted to my daughter who seemed intent on tying two straws into a dozen knots. I leaned forward as she spoke.

  “Eric’s been hassling me ever since I started working here,” she said.

  “Did you tell Nina?” asked Gran. Nina was a close friend of my grandmother’s as well as the manager of the Apple Tree bakery. Because of the older women’s friendship, Jenna had landed one of the highly coveted seasonal weekend jobs at the farm. With college less than a year away, any contribution to her slim college fund helped.

  Jenna nodded. “Nina told me to avoid Eric, but she said she didn’t want to upset the apple cart. Or upset Mr. Thorson, I guess.”

  “What do you mean, he hassles you?” I asked. “I got the impression Eric likes you.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes. “He likes me a little too much. Eric is supposed to work in the cider house with Tony, but it seems like he’s always in the bakery hitting on me.”

  Gran thumped the table with a gnarled fist––the one not holding the donut. “That’s plain wrong. I’ll call Nina when I get home. We can’t have that boy harassing you.”

  “How did Tony get involved?” I asked, curious about the young man responsible for the right side of my face now feeling frostbitten. It might be time to give the ice pack a rest.

  “Tony and I often take our breaks together. A few days ago, I got so ticked off with Eric that I stormed out of the bakery. Tony could tell something was wrong, so eventually I confided in him. Eric joined Tony and me on our break today. He kept pulling on
my hairnet, saying ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.’” Jenna pretended to gag.

  After Jenna’s revelation, I was ready to tie up and gag Eric the next time I saw him. I wondered if Axel was aware of his son’s repugnant behavior.

  Speaking of the owner, another round of raised voices could be heard outside the building. Gran snapped her head around so fast her blond pixie-cut wig slipped to the side, uncovering one of her pointed ears, and giving her the appearance of a tipsy elf. My grandmother began wearing wigs two decades ago with styles ranging from Lucille Ball to Lady Gaga. As far as we knew, underneath her multi-hued wigs, she could be balder than Bruce Willis.

  Jenna helped Gran to her feet before she raced off. I rose from my chair and straightened Gran’s lopsided “do.” We followed my daughter out to the employee parking area.

  A Volkswagen Beetle that looked almost as old as Gran peeled out of the lot. It was more of a lurch than a peel as the driver struggled to shift the ancient gears of the rusted yellow Bug. I recognized Tony behind the wheel of the vehicle before he disappeared in a plume of dust down the long gravel drive.

  “I’m sorry you were a party to that boy’s nonsense,” said Axel, a frustrated look on his face. “He’s one juvenile delinquent who will be difficult to reform.”

  “Tony is not a juvenile delinquent,” Jenna blurted out. “He’s a great guy.” Under her breath, I heard her say “as opposed to your son.”

  If Axel overheard her remark, he chose to ignore it.

  “Jenna, your mother has done an excellent job of raising you. Perhaps in time Tony will also become an exemplary citizen. For now, he should be grateful I didn’t have the police arrest him.”