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Dear Persnickety Whirlwinds,

Dug up another story. This one was based off another prompt (they help me when I can't think of anything to write). Anyway, this one said to write a story about a detective who investigates a series of arsons at Krispy Kremes.

Enjoy



"Charbroiled Delights"

Soot mars the sign like a black toothy grin. It's the only part of the shop that doesn't resemble charcoal. I yawn. It's too early to be up and the coffee doesn't help much. The rising sun reflects off the face of my watch and blinds me momentarily. It's the seventh time I've checked it in ten minutes. Or eighth. I've lost count.

"You look like hell."

The voice belongs to the fire chief, the person I was waiting for.

"Hi Roger. You all done?" I ask.

"Yeah. Just watch your step. Everything's falling apart."

"Know where it started?"

"Looks like the kitchen."

"Accelerant?"

He wipes smoky grit from his face leaving a streak. "For it get so big so fast? Yeah, I'd say so."

We say goodbye. He asks me if I want to get a beer tonight and I say I will if I can still stand up then. He thinks this is a joke, slaps me on the back, and I nearly fall over. He laughs, climbs onto his big red truck and leaves.

The smell invades my nostrils inside the shop; fragrant, pungent, and sickly at the same time. It's familiar. The floor, countertops, walls, and ceilings are slick with water. I maneuver my way around the overturned remains of chairs and tables to get to the kitchen.

The body is in the corner under a fallen rack, blackened and scrunched up into a fetal position. I crouch down, seeing if I can find some identification, but it's a lost cause. I'm not sure the corpse has any pockets. It's so far gone, I'm not even sure it has any pants. Whatever is encased in the crusted cocoon would require the services of the medical examiner.

"Sam."

"Jesus Christ, Feingold, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Jumpy today?" he says with an easy smile.

He's bright-eyed and dressed to impress, his neat attire in stark contrast to myself. I have on rumpled trousers and a shirt rescued from the laundry heap at four in the morning, but we're in a burnt down doughnut shop, not a fashion runway. Feingold walks around, a spring in his step. He's always this way--bright, eager, full of youthful vigor. I think he mainlines caffeine.

"So, you think this is the same guy?" he asks.

"Yeah. Got a body though. That's different."

"What makes you think it's still the same guy?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "Three Krispy Kremes in three weeks burned to a cinder. I'm taking a wild guess."

He nods. He's an easy sell. "Do we know who that is?" he says, pointing to the body.

"Maybe the owner. No identification yet. Will have to wait for the ME."

"Time to make the doughnuts."

"What?"

He grins. "You know, from those commercials? 'Time to make the doughnuts!'"

"That's Dunkin' Donuts, not Krispy Kreme," I say, but I don't know why. It's better to ignore him, not argue.

"Just saying, you know--"

"Spare me, okay?"

He laughs and I stare at him.

"I get it. Like a tire right? A doughnut spare?"

I steer him to the door and tell him to get statements from the potential witnesses gathered behind the barricades. As he struts out to greet the public, pad and pen in hand, I can't help but imagine that he might become police commissioner one day and I pray for my sanity.

I make some calls and find out that the owner and all employees are accounted for. With Feingold out of the way, I look around some more and stay late to talk to our friendly neighborhood medical examiner, who promises to call me before she does the autopsy. If we're lucky, we'll find out the body is our firebug.

When I get back to that station, it is already late afternoon. I walk back to my desk, trailing essence of charbroiled doughnut. I sit and rub my eyes, tired beyond comprehension. At least no one has made any cop and doughnut jokes today.

"Honey glazed."

It's Feingold sitting across from me. It looks like he's wearing different clothes from this morning. They're clean and pressed. Where does he get the time?

I look up at him. "What?" I say. I am not in the mood for this.

"Honey glazed doughnut. That's what you smell like," he says, beaming.

Chipper bastard.