by Laura Childs
Suzanne turned to see Don Shinder getting out of his car across the street. His head was bowed and he looked exhausted. Two men came out of the building where his law office was located to greet him. They all started talking and nodding.
“Poor Don,” Toni said. “Do you think he’s interviewing for law partners already?”
Suzanne studied the two men who had greeted Shinder. They looked serious and were well dressed, in suits and topcoats, so they might very well be lawyers. They were also stomping their feet to ward off the cold and keep the circulation going. “Or maybe he’s talking to a couple of headhunters,” Suzanne said.
“For some reason that term makes me very queasy.”
“Still . . . Shinder’s business, his law firm, has to keep forging ahead. I’m sure he’s got clients who are dependent on him for legal help, so chances are he’s going to need someone to step in right away. A partner or a junior partner at the very least.”
“Kind of like you have me,” Toni said.
Suzanne smiled. “And I couldn’t ask for a better partner.”
CHAPTER 16
ONCE they were back at the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne, Toni, and Petra allowed themselves a scant twenty minutes of prep time before they officially opened for business. Petra had made an executive decision to combine breakfast and lunch today since attending the graveyard service had put them a good two hours behind. So a brunch menu.
“Give me the details,” Suzanne said to Petra. She was dancing on the balls of her feet, ready to get cracking. Still trying to warm up, too.
“Chicken salad on croissants, mushroom and cheddar quiche, our dollar-ninety-nine pancake special, and salmon cakes with fried green tomatoes.”
“Easy stuff,” Toni said.
Petra smiled as she grabbed a bunch of celery and slapped it down on her cutting board. “If you think it’s so easy, kiddo, why don’t we trade places? I’ll pour coffee and take orders while you man the kitchen and whip out all the food.”
Toni lifted both hands in surrender and backed away. “Just kidding, just kidding.”
“I know you were, sweetie,” said Petra. “Say, would you mind doing me a big favor?”
“Name it,” Toni said.
“Run into the Knitting Nest and grab me a fresh apron. This one’s got a nasty splotch on it.”
“Petra’s as fastidious as a cat,” Suzanne said.
“Nothing wrong with that.” Petra smiled.
“I’ll do it in a sec,” Toni said, heading into the café. “I just want to get the coffee brewing first.”
Suzanne sliced and buttered a dozen croissants, arranging them on plates with some strawberries for garnish. She glanced at her watch and said, “I’m going to hang our Open sign, okay?”
“Go for it,” Petra said. “I won’t be any readier ten minutes from now.”
But as Suzanne walked into the café, a bloodcurdling scream suddenly rent the air. It rose, spiraled out of control, and then dissolved into a slow moan. And it came from . . .
The Knitting Nest!
“What the Sam Hill was that?” Petra rocketed through the swinging door, almost colliding with Suzanne.
“I don’t know,” Suzanne said. “But it came from . . .”
“Toni?” Petra said. “What did that poor girl . . . ?”
They rushed into the Knitting Nest to find Toni quaking like a leaf and doing a sort of jitterbug dance. She was pointing a finger at what appeared to be a ghost. And not just any ghost; it was the cowled ghost that had murdered Allan Sharp!
“It’s the same ghost!” Toni cried. “Come back to haunt me.” She looked utterly frantic. “You both see it, too, don’t you? It’s not just a filament of my imagination?”
“Figment,” Suzanne said.
“Whatever. It’s for sure a real-life apparition,” Toni said, backing away, shivering and shaking with fear. “We should, like . . .” She raised a clenched fist. “Kill it!”
“No, no,” Petra interrupted. She was almost, but not quite, on the verge of laughter. “That’s not a ghost, Toni; it’s a ghost costume.”
Toni whirled about to face her. “Whuh?”
“Remember the other day when Teddy Hardwick came in? He brought that costume along with him and asked me to make some changes,” Petra said.
“You mean it’s the same costume that Bill Probst had been wearing?” Suzanne asked.
“That’s right,” Petra said. “So I can guarantee it’s perfectly harmless. And that it wasn’t involved in the murder.”
Toni’s teeth were still chattering like castanets. “Holy baloney, is that really true?”
Petra nodded. “Didn’t I just explain myself?”
“But I really thought it was a ghost! Or that Allan Sharp came back from the dead to haunt us.”
“Oh, for cripes’ sake, Toni,” Petra said, getting a little stirred up now. “There’s no such things as ghosts.”
Toni pointed at the costume that Petra had hung on a quilting frame. “That haunt sure looks genuine to me.”
“You’re just freaked-out from the visitation last night and the funeral this morning,” Petra said. She moved closer and touched a protective hand to the ghost costume. “I worked very hard on this.”
“Teddy Hardwick asked you to change it?” Suzanne asked Petra. So that’s why Hardwick had been meeting with her.
“In a few places, yes,” Petra said. “He wanted a few modifications made. So this ghost would look significantly different from . . . um . . .”
“From the killer’s ghost costume,” Suzanne said. She immediately thought of Reverend Jakes buying all that cheesecloth. Now she definitely had to question him.
“I guess that’s about right,” Petra said.
Suzanne studied the spooky gray-green costume. “Well, even though the play’s been cancelled, that costume does look convincing.”
“It convinced me,” Toni said.
* * *
• • •
CUSTOMERS showed up, coffee was poured, and brunches were cooked to order. As more customers arrived, so did the postman with the morning mail.
“Look at this,” Toni said. In between customers, she’d been paging through the Bugle. Now she handed it to Suzanne. “You made the front page of the newspaper. Your name was prominently mentioned in Gene Gandle’s article. You’re semifamous.”
“Semifamous how?” Suzanne asked, grabbing the newspaper and scanning the front page.
“The article says you were the first one to figure out that a fake ghost killed Allan Sharp. That you chased after the ghost and that it turned and threatened you with a knife.”
“I wonder where Gene got his information.”
Toni affected a look of complete innocence. “I have no idea.”
“Toni!” Suzanne shrieked. “Did you spill the beans about this?”
Toni started to protest, then gave it up. “Me and like a dozen other people. If you recall, it was nutcakes that night. Allan Sharp was oozing blood onstage, everybody was screaming their fool heads off, and you dashed after that killer ghost.”
“Only it wasn’t a ghost,” Suzanne said. “And now the killer knows exactly who I am.”
“He didn’t before?” Toni asked.
“No! It’s not like I introduced myself.” Suzanne turned, poured herself a cup of coffee, and downed half of it quickly. She was hoping the caffeine would hit her fast so she could sort her thoughts out more clearly. “Now he knows my name. And can probably figure out where I live.”
“Damn,” Toni said. “That ain’t good at all.”
“No, it’s not.” Suzanne wasn’t so worried about herself as she was for Sam. He was what you’d call . . . trusting. If somebody called the house and cried emergency, he’d dash out the door, no questions asked.
“There’s also a
sidebar article about Junior’s trailer burning to the ground,” Toni said.
“Am I mentioned in that one, too?”
“No, but I am.”
“Aren’t we the lucky ducks.”
* * *
• • •
A half hour later, Sheriff Doogie walked in. He stood there stomping snow off his boots and surveying the crowd in the café as if he were hunting down Russian spies for the CIA. Then he walked over to the counter and hoisted himself onto his regular stool.
Suzanne poured Doogie a cup of coffee, set it in front of him, and said, “We missed your smiling face at Allan Sharp’s graveside service this morning, Sheriff.”
Doogie swept his hat off his head and set it on the stool next to him. “I’m not big on graves or services,” he said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.” He shrugged out of his brown parka and tossed that on another stool.
“Even when the service is for a murder victim?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s zero hidden meaning in what I just said,” Suzanne told him. “Sharp was murdered in cold blood; his killer is still on the loose. I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe, he might have turned up at the service this morning.”
“Is that what you think happened?” Doogie asked.
“I don’t know, isn’t that what always happens in the movies? The killer comes back to gloat? But of course I don’t know because I’m not privy to the really critical information.”
Doogie took a sip of coffee and made a big production out of savoring it. Then he said, “You think you could help figure this out?”
“I’m probably smarter than your average deputy.”
Doogie grinned. “Ya got me there, Suzanne. But can you shoot straight? Can you hit a moving target? Could you shoot an actual person?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never tried.”
Doogie cranked his head sideways and squinted at the chalkboard. “Buttermilk pancakes, huh? Sounds pretty good.”
“I’ll put your order in right away,” Suzanne said.
“Wait one.” Doogie held up a finger. “Can you have Petra add a rasher of bacon?”
“Sure. Regular or turkey bacon?”
Doogie scowled. “Turkey’s for Thanksgiving. And that’s already past.”
“Whatever.”
Suzanne put in Doogie’s order, then busied herself delivering a half-dozen entrees that had just come up. And even though they were offering an abbreviated menu, the Cackleberry Club was blessed with a full house today. Which meant that, halfway through lunch, Toni had to get out a mop and bucket and swipe up all the water that had puddled at the front door. The joys of a winter storm.
When Doogie was down to his last pancake, Suzanne circled back to talk to him.
“So who’s at the top of your suspect list?” she asked.
Doogie stared at her.
“Let me guess. Amber Payson and Mayor Mobley are enjoying top honors?”
Doogie hunched his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug.
“What about Teddy Hardwick?” Suzanne asked. “You know, he was looking for you last night at the visitation. Did the two of you ever connect?”
“Nope.” Doogie sopped up syrup with his last bite of pancake. “What’d he want?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to confess.”
“Very funny,” Doogie said.
“Not really, since I already told you that Hardwick had been all lathered up about Allan Sharp. Because of the cracked foundation in his new town house.”
“But Hardwick was busy directing the play the night of the murder.”
“Sure he was, but he managed to mysteriously disappear at the moment the murder took place.”
“And you think that makes Hardwick guilty?”
“I think that makes him a legitimate suspect,” Suzanne said. She paused. “And another thing. Reverend Ethan Jakes bought umpteen yards of cheesecloth last week at that fabric store, Fabrique.”
“What’s cheesecloth?” Doogie asked. “You mean for wrapping up cheese?”
“It’s a kind of fabric, what the ghost costume was made out of.”
Doogie gave a slow reptilian blink. “You’re kidding.” He was suddenly digesting more than just his pancakes.
“No, I’m not.”
“But he’s a . . . an ordained minister,” Doogie said.
“Who was severely rebuffed by Allan Sharp when he suggested the city council hold a day of prayer.”
“And you think Jakes nursed a grudge over that?”
“Jakes is strange,” Suzanne said. “He’s got this gleam in his eye. Like he has some sort of messianic calling.”
Doogie looked thoughtful. “You give me a lot to chew on, Suzanne.” He stifled a burp.
“It is a lot. And I know most of my suspicions are based on what you always call circumstantial evidence,” Suzanne said. “But you have to start somewhere, right?”
Doogie lifted a hand. “It’s one of the ways you start building a case.”
“Okay, then,” Suzanne said. “Can I ask you about Allan Sharp?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Allan Sharp lived alone?”
“You know he did,” Doogie said.
“Have you been able to account for his comings and goings on that particular day?”
“You mean the day he was murdered?”
“Yes,” Suzanne said. “I’m wondering if Sharp got into an argument with someone. Did he happen to deliver some bad news? You know, the kind of thing that might push someone over the edge and make them angry enough to retaliate.”
“Not that I’ve found so far,” Doogie said.
“What about enemies?” Suzanne held up her hand and said, “I know Sharp was roundly disliked all over town, but I’m talking about real enemies. Serious enemies.”
Doogie squinted at her. “Mayor Mobley?”
“Sharp and Mobley did have a serious falling-out. But investigating Mobley is tricky,” Suzanne said. “He’s got a coterie of spies and tattletales all over town.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What about Allan Sharp’s brother? Were there any problems between them?”
“None that I’ve found so far. Earl’s your basic mild-mannered accountant and it seems like they got along fairly well.”
Suzanne thought for a minute. “Is there anything more on who might have set fire to Junior’s trailer?”
“Nope.”
Suzanne leaned on the counter. “Huh.”
“Yeah,” Doogie said. “It’s a pickle, ain’t it?”
CHAPTER 17
SUZANNE was brewing a pot of Earl Grey tea when Reverend Ethan Jakes walked in. He was wearing a faux-faded fleece hoodie that said Jesus Washed Away My Sins on the front, dark slacks, and pac boots. Jakes glanced toward the counter, let his eyes pass over her, then turned and sat down at the small table by the window.
Suzanne wondered if Jakes was avoiding her or if he might be a trifle shy. On the other hand, if he was avoiding her, he wouldn’t have come in here in the first place. Okay, so this was her chance to talk to him and maybe even confront him about the cheesecloth he’d bought.
Suzanne grabbed her list of teas and headed for Jakes’s table.
“Afternoon, Reverend,” she said. “That was a very nice service you conducted this morning.”
“Thank you.”
“With the day being so cold, I have a feeling that a nice hot cup of tea might warm you up.” She set the tea menu down in front of him.
Jakes glanced at the tea menu, then looked at her. “I was thinking about a cup of coffee. But since you mentioned it, tea does sound interesting.”
“What kind would you like?” Suzanne asked.
Jakes wrinkled his brow
. “That’s kind of a problem. The only tea I’ve ever tasted is Chinese restaurant tea. So I’m your basic tea neophyte.”
“Tea’s not so tricky,” Suzanne said. “There’s black tea, green tea, and white tea.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, they all have umpteen variations. Tell you what: I could brew a pot of Ceylon tea for you. It’s light, bright, and refreshing. Kind of a starter tea. Or I could brew a flavored tea.”
“What kinds of flavors are there?” Jakes asked.
“Pretty much anything you want. Spiced plum, rose hips and hibiscus, lemon verbena; I’ve even got a chocolate tea.” Suzanne was aware that their conversation had suddenly turned friendly. Good. When she quizzed him later about the cheesecloth, she might get a straight answer.
“I think I’d like to try your spiced plum tea.”
“Along with a cream scone?” Suzanne asked.
Jakes bobbed his head. “That might be nice.”
Under Toni’s watchful eye, Suzanne brewed a single pot of spiced plum tea, then plated a scone and added small dishes of Devonshire cream and strawberry jam.
“You’re really buttering him up,” Toni said under her breath.
“Trying to anyway.”
When Suzanne carried the tea tray to Jakes’s table, she lingered. Instructing him in the art of cutting his scone crossways, adding the jam first, and then dabbing on the Devonshire cream.
“What happens if I do it the other way around?” Jakes asked.
“Tastes the same, just a little messier.”
Jakes chuckled. He really was loosening up. Which meant it was time for Suzanne to pounce.
“I was in Fabrique the other day and one of the ladies who works there mentioned to me that you’d bought almost an entire roll of cheesecloth,” Suzanne said.
Jakes stared at her, unblinking, like an old turtle.
“Which got my overactive mind to wondering,” Suzanne continued. “What would a man of the cloth do with so much cheesecloth?”
