Deadly Donuts by Jessica Beck Page B

thank you.   I’m fine.”
    After Momma was in the kitchen, Jake looked at me and asked, “Does she usually get her recipes from mystery novels?   Not that I’m complaining, but it seems like a rather odd combination to me.”
    “Culinary mysteries are a strong niche in the cozy field she loves,” I said.   The only reason I’d known that was because of the lecture I’d been given on the same topic from Momma when she’d switched from craft-related cozies to her current trend of reading what she called foodies.   She’d even read a series based on a donut shop, of all things.   I’d picked one up once to browse through, but I usually don’t check out too many mysteries myself.   I had to admit that the recipes looked pretty good, though, and I thought about trying a few for my customers the next time I was searching for something new to offer my clientele at Donut Hearts.
    After we gave thanks for the meal, Momma dished out our plates.   The roast was so tender it fell apart at first contact with my fork, and I could smell the bay leaves and thyme as I dished a little of the gravy onto it.   The carrots were perfect, and the tiny new potatoes popped open like gifts to receive the butter I added.   This wasn’t the time to skimp on the extras, and I was a true fan of real butter, not some oleo substitute chock full of chemicals.
    Taking a small serving of each offering, I put the forkful of food in my mouth and the flavors exploded.   After I dispatched the first bite, I said, “I don’t know how your mystery was, but this recipe is fantastic.”
    “I told you that my habit of reading mysteries would come in handy someday,” she said.
    I turned to Jake, and I saw a substantial smile on his face.   “What do you think?”
    After a second, he looked at me and asked, “Did you say something?   I was just thinking that this is probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”
    Grace echoed the thought as well, and Momma grinned as she said,   “Don’t fill up on pot roast.   I know that it’s good, but I made dessert as well.”
    “What are we having?” I asked, and then I took another bite of roast and carrot.
    “Suzanne, how can you even think about dessert when we’re eating this masterpiece?” Jake asked me.
    “I want to see if there’s any reason not to eat this until I can’t move.”
    “It’s chocolate explosion pie,” Momma said.
    “Well?” Grace asked.   “What are you going to do?”
    My Momma’s pies were famous in our parts, but it was still a coin toss.   After some thought, I finally said, “I might back off the pot roast a little, and then have a sliver of pie, too.”
    “Wow, that must be some pie,” Jake said.
    “Try it yourself, and then see if I’m selling it short.”
    “Suzanne, when it comes to food, I’m going to take your word for it every time.   I can hardly wait.”
    The pie was just as delicious as I imagined that it would be, though I limited myself to a small slice, at least the first time I sampled some.   The second slice was a little bigger, but in my defense, the combined slices were still less than I usually had in one helping.
    “I’m now officially too stuffed to move,” I said as I pushed the dessert plate away, nearly polished clean from my attack on the pie.
    “Why don’t you all go into the living room, and I’ll clean up?” Momma suggested.
    We all protested at the same time, but my mother wasn’t a woman who would allow her suggestions to be vetoed.   “You are here to discuss the current state of your investigation, am I correct?”
    There were three nods, and then she continued, “I’m making myself useful in the best way I know how, and you should as well.   Everyone needs to go into the living room and solve this dreadful man’s murder.   After all, that’s what the three of you are best at.   Now, are there any more arguments?”
    As I’d expected, there were none, and Momma looked satisfied with our