Mint Chip Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 6 (6 page)

“Oooh, and like in A Few Good Men, too,”
Heather added.  “Where Tom Cruise provokes Jack Nicholson into admitting that
he ordered the code red.”

“I haven’t seen that movie,” Amy said.

“You what?  Never?  How did I not know
this?  You have lived a sheltered and deprived life, girlfriend.”

“Is it a romance?”

“No.  There actually isn’t any romance
involved.  For once.”

“Then what’s the point of the movie?”

“Only truth triumphing over lies,”
Heather said.  “Good triumphing over evil.  Right overcoming wrong.”

“Too bad real life doesn’t work like
that,” Amy said.

“Sometimes it does.  Sometimes things
turn out right.”

“Think that’ll happen in Kelly’s
murder?”  Amy stared across the food court at Brent as he threw his trash in
the trashcan and set his tray on top.

“I hope so,” Heather said.

“Because she was a good person, you
know?” Amy said.  “Not just a good hairdresser, but a truly good person.  And
she didn’t deserve what happened to her.  No matter who did it.  Or why.”

When she got home, Heather let Dave
out and walked down the hall to her room, still holding her shopping bags.  She
set them on her bed and began pulling things from them one by one.  The deep
burgundy maxi dress was, with its silver accents around the hem, was, in her
opinion, just perfect for her medium-red hair, fair skin, and green eyes. 

She was well aware that some people
believed redheads shouldn’t wear red, but in her opinion, you just had to
choose the right red to complement your own coloring.

Next, she drew a shoebox out of
another bag.  The silver sandals, she set on the bed next to the dress.  At the
mall, she’d debated whether or not she should buy them, but now, she was glad
she had.  They were chic but not too fancy—which was good, since “fancy” had
never been her style.  She much preferred simple and elegant.

She laid the chunky silver bracelet
and silver hoop earrings on the top of her dresser.  Then, she went into her
tiny bathroom with its clawfoot tub to run a bath.  She turned on the hot
water, waited for it to heat up, then turned on the cold to lower the
temperature to just below steaming. 

While she waited for the tub to fill,
she twisted her hair up on top of her head and clipped it in place. Then she
let her clothes fall into a heap on the floor and slipped into the
nearly-steaming water.

This was the kind of pampering she
enjoyed—a nice, hot bath when she didn’t really need one because she’d taken a
shower that morning.  Time to soak up the heat, lean her head back and just
be. 

Of course, she couldn’t be for too
long; she wanted to have plenty of time to get ready for her date with Ryan. 
That was another luxury she enjoyed—taking her time getting dressed and
accessorizing, then attempting to do something with her sometimes contrary
tresses.

Heather stuck her feet up out of the
water and wiggled her toes.  She’d chosen clear nail polish, instead of a more
prominent color such as burgundy.  There was such a thing as one’s ensemble
being too coordinated.

When her fingers began to look like
prunes, she reluctantly got out of the tub.  Drying off, she wrapped the towel
around her and headed for the bedroom just as her cell phone started ringing.

Ryan.  “Hello?” she said.

“Hey, Beautiful,” Ryan said.  “ Are you
getting ready to head over here?”

“In about twenty minutes,” she said.

“Great.  Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” she said.

“So, twenty minutes?  Not ten, not
thirty?”

“I’ll be there at seven, on the dot”
she said.

“Perfect.  See you then.”  The line
went dead.

Heather frowned quizzically at the
phone, and then smiled.  Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, she saw that
it was 6:29.  Time to get dressed.

***

Thirty-one minutes later, at exactly
7:00, Heather stood on Ryan’s front porch ringing the doorbell.  He answered
the door in slacks and a white dress shirt.  Standing aside, he invited her in
with a sweep of his arm.  “This way, Madame,” he said.

“Merci, monsieur,” Heather replied,
dredging up one of the few French phrases she knew.

“May I take your purse?”

“But of course.”  Heather handed it to
him, and he placed it on the coffee table.

“It smells wonderful in here,” she
said, sniffing the mouth-watering aromas emanating from the kitchen.

“Your table waits,” Ryan said.  “And
may I say that Madame looks beautiful?”

“Of course you may,” Heather said,
smiling.

He led her to the kitchen table, where
he held her chair for her as she sat down.  Before her was a salad plate laden
with greens artfully dressed.  One goblet at her place held water; the other
wine. Heather took one look at the presentation and realized that she had
grossly underestimated him.

She said nothing until he sat down
across from her.  “This looks fantastic,” she said.  “Thank you.  Already.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Ryan
said, dropping the formality and grinning in that way she knew and loved. 
“Just wait til the main course.”

Heather took a bite of her salad. 
“Mmm, this dressing is delicious,” she said.  “What kind is it?”

“I made it,” Ryan said simply.

“You made it?  Like, from various oils
and spices and things?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.  Um, okay.  I’m kind of feeling
bad for serving you Wish-Bone dressing.”

“I love to cook,” Ryan said.  “You
don’t.  Yet you made a delicious meal anyway.  I’d call that a win.”

She took another bite of salad. 
“You’re not on call tonight, are you?”

“Nope.  Bill’s catching.  Tonight, I’m
all yours.”

“Promise?”  Heather asked, arching her
eyebrows at him.

“Don’t make me prove it,” Ryan said,
“or we’ll never get to the main course.”  He pushed back his chair and stood. 
“Be right back,” he said.

She saw him open the oven door and
peer inside.  “I believe our main course is ready,” he announced.  Wearing one
oven mitt, he deftly removed the pan from the oven.  On it sat two steaks that
looked absolutely luscious even from several feet away.

Heather watched him check the
temperature, then place each one on a dinner plate.  He removed the lid from a
pan on the stovetop and spooned something on top of each steak.  Finally, he
added a slice of French bread to each plate, and then set hers in front of her
with a flourish.

Sautéed mushrooms topped the meat, the
wine sauce in which they had been marinated mingling with the juices from the
steak.  “Wow,” she said as Ryan took his seat.  “I can’t wait to taste this.”

“Dig in,” he said.  “Let me know if
it’s cooked the way you like it.”

As she sliced off a bite of steak, she
could see just a hint of pink.  “Perfect,” she said.  She raised the fork to
her mouth and let the meat settle on her tongue.  As she began to chew and the
rich savoriness of the combined flavors filled her mouth, she rolled her eyes
heavenward.  “This is so good,” she said.  “I can never cook for you again. 
Nothing I make is anywhere near this good.”

“Should everyone in the world stop
painting because they’re not Monet?” he asked.  “What about all the Renoirs and
Van Goghs?  The world needs their art, too.  It would be a tragedy if they
stopped painting because they couldn’t paint water lilies like Monet could.”

“Point taken,” she said.  “So what
else don’t I know about you?  What other surprises will I find out along the
way?”

“None that I know of,” he said.  “What
you see is what you get.  I’m just a guy with a cat and a taste for beer who
happens to solve mysteries for a living.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she
said.  “You’re not ‘just’ an anything.  You’re an amazing guy who makes justice
triumph for a living, and who also happens to be a gourmet chef and look pretty
darn good even in jeans and a t-shirt.”

“So, about that cop thing,” Ryan said,
cutting another bite of his steak.  “You don’t mind dating a cop?  You don’t
mind it when I get called away from a date, or when I have to go to work
instead of spending time with you?”

“I don’t like it,” Heather said.  “But
I don’t resent it.  I know its part of your job.  It’s what you do.  I knew that
before we started dating.  And I admire you for it.”

“Really?”  Ryan’s dark eyes were on
hers.

“Really,” she said.  “I’m proud of you
and what you do.  I’m proud that you’re one of the good guys.  That what you
do, matters.  That you’re good at it.  That people like you are the reason
people like me can sleep peacefully at night.  Yes, I’d like to have more time
together sometimes.  But I wouldn’t wish away anything about you.  It’s part of
what makes you who you are.”

Ryan’s gaze dropped to his plate as he
nodded.  He busied himself cutting another bite of steak as he cleared his
throat.  It seemed like forever before he met her gaze once more.

“Favorite sports team?” he asked,
raising one eyebrow.

“Uh, I don’t really have one.”

“You don’t?  How can you not have a
favorite sports team?”

“The same way you probably don’t have
a favorite interior decorator,” she said.

“Hey, women can like sports, too.  And
guys can decorate their homes.  Look at my house.”  He spread his arms wide,
inviting her to take it all in.  “I have my very own style.  I call it
‘Bachelor Chic.’”

She laughed.  “It works,” she said,
pushing her plate away.  “Ugh, I’m stuffed.  The steak was so delicious I ate
too much.  I may never eat again.”

“Not even if I made a dessert?” Ryan
asked.

Heather groaned.  “What is it?”

“Cheesecake,” he said smugly.  “With
homemade cherry topping.”

“I could not possibly fit a slice of
cheesecake in on top of all this,” she said, patting her flat stomach.  “I’m
too full.  Could we save it for later?”

“Of course,” he said.  “Madame’s wish
is my command.”

When Ryan rose to begin clearing the
table, Heather piled her own silverware on top of her plate.  “I can get it,”
he said.  “You take your glass of wine to the den and have a seat.”

“Gladly,” she agreed with a smile. 
She settled in on Ryan’s sofa and waited, sipping her wine and listening to the
sounds coming from the kitchen as he cleared the table and put the dishes in
the sink.

In another minute, he sat down on the
couch next to her.  “I’ve really enjoyed tonight,” he said. 

“Me too.”  Heather put her glass of
wine on the coffee table and turned to face him.  “Thank you for that
incredible meal.”

“I enjoyed cooking for you,” Ryan
said.  He hesitated, holding her gaze with his.  Then he said his voice husky,
“In fact, if it were possible, I’d cook for you every night of our lives.”

Heather felt the trembling start in
the very center of her body and found herself utterly unable to speak.

“You said earlier that you don’t mind
dating a cop,” he said.  “Do you think you’d want to be married to one?”

Heather’s hand seemed to rise and
cover her mouth of its own volition as tears sprang to her eyes.  Slowly, never
taking his eyes off hers, Ryan knelt before her on one knee and reached for her
hands.  “Heather, I’ve never known anyone like you,” he said. 

“You’re smart, you’re funny, and
you’re amazing.  You’re beautiful.  I want to go to sleep by your side every
night and wake up next to you every morning.”

He stopped to clear his throat, and Heather
realized with amazement that there were tears in his eyes, too.  “Heather, I
love you,”  he said, his voice cracking. 

“I know I don’t deserve you, but you
would make me the happiest man in the world if you would agree to be my wife. 
Heather, will you marry me?”

Her tears spilled over, and she
reached for him blindly, feeling his strong arms go around her. 

“Yes,” she murmured against his cheek
through her tears.  “Yes, I’ll become the happiest woman in the world and marry
you.”

His lips found hers, and he kissed
her, deeply and passionately.  Then he pulled away and fumbled in his pocket. 
He drew out a small, black velvet box and opened it to display the ring she
knew she would wear for the rest of her life—a square-cut, sparkling diamond solitaire. 
She held out a trembling hand as he placed it on her ring finger.  It fit like
it had been made for her, and maybe it had.  How he had known her ring size,
she didn’t know.  But she figured if he could figure out who killed whom, of
course he’d be able to determine what size ring she wore.