Eggs on Ice

by Laura Childs

  Suzanne tried to get by him. “Excuse me. I don’t want to be late for Paula’s broadcast.”

  “For you, she’ll wait,” Steed said. “Just be sure to lay out all the juicy details, okay? Like what did Hardwick look like? How long had he been hanging there?”

  Talking about Hardwick was the absolute last thing Suzanne wanted to do as she slipped into Studio B. Luckily, there were no questions from Wily VonBank, Paula’s longtime sound engineer. Instead, Wily smiled and touched a finger to his lips as he led her from the control booth into a small studio. It was semidark, warm, and baffled with blips of foam rubber that reminded Suzanne of egg crates. Paula sat at a small console talking into her microphone. In honeyed tones she crooned about a sale on carpets at Cal’s Carpet Barn in neighboring Jessup.

  As Suzanne sat down on a high stool, Wily placed a pair of headphones on her head and positioned a microphone directly in front of her mouth. Then Suzanne waited, feeling a little jittery, a little nervous, that Paula might drill her about Teddy Hardwick.

  But Paula didn’t do that. In fact, talking to her was an absolute dream.

  After giving Suzanne a warm introduction and chatting back and forth, Paula said, “Tell us about the toy drive that’s going on at the Cackleberry Club right now.”

  “We’re collecting toys for kids who might not otherwise get a gift for Christmas,” Suzanne said. “And it doesn’t even have to be an expensive toy, just something fun.”

  “If people are in a gift-buying mood, what’s the age range they should consider?”

  “We’re collecting toys for kids five years old on up to age sixteen,” Suzanne said. She leaned in closer to her microphone. “You know, people love to buy cuddly teddy bears that appeal to young kids. But older kids, teenagers, are often forgotten.”

  “And they’re still kids, too,” Paula said. “Even though they’d rather die than admit that.”

  “But everyone loves finding something under the tree on Christmas morning.”

  Paula asked a few more questions, then gave the dates of the toy drive and the address of the Cackleberry Club.

  “You folks know where it is,” Paula said. “All you have to do is follow the aroma of fresh-baked sticky rolls.” She hit a button on her console and her show music—what radio folks called bumpers—came up. And Suzanne was done.

  “Painless, yes?” Paula said.

  “Thank you for not asking me about Teddy Hardwick,” Suzanne said.

  Paula waved a hand. “It wouldn’t have been appropriate.” Her eyes twinkled. “Still, you have to run the gauntlet outside.”

  “Norm Steed already accosted me.”

  “And he probably will again,” Paula laughed.

  But for some reason, Steed was nowhere in sight. So Suzanne was able to rush out of the station and, she hoped, be on her way. She was a little late, but not too late. If she hurried, she’d arrive with fifteen minutes to spare before the Cackleberry Club opened for business.

  Just as she reached her car, another car, a silver SUV, pulled in beside her. It was Don Shinder, Allan Sharp’s old partner.

  Shinder climbed out of his car, saw Suzanne, and said, “I heard about Teddy Hardwick. It must have been awful for you.” His voice was kind and he had a sympathetic look on his face.

  Suzanne just nodded. “Norm Steed just tried to pry the details out of me.”

  “Awful,” Shinder said. “You know, being a lawyer, I’m used to people displaying that kind of morbid curiosity. Accidents and homicides, people always want to pick at you for details. It’s macabre.” He shook his head as if to dispel that irritating thought. “What brings you out here, Suzanne? You have aspirations to be a DJ, too? As if you don’t have enough keeping you busy?”

  “I was just doing a promo piece with Paula for our toy drive.”

  “Today must be good-deed day,” Shinder said. “I’m recording a public safety announcement for snowmobile safety.”

  Suzanne reached over and squeezed his arm. “Good for you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  DRIVING back through town, Suzanne wondered what Sheriff Doogie would be up to today. Would he re-interview anyone? Had he found fingerprints at Hardwick’s house that didn’t belong and therefore could be construed as suspicious? How was Doogie planning to catch Hardwick’s killer? And was it really the same person who’d killed Allan Sharp?

  Suzanne figured it pretty much had to be. Then she shifted focus and decided to review her suspect list. Now that Hardwick was out of the picture, that left Mayor Mobley, Ethan Jakes, and Amber Payson.

  Could Amber be the wild card in all of this? The girl had encountered serious issues with Sharp; that was for sure. But what about Hardwick? Did Amber and Hardwick know each other? Had they been having a relationship? Was Amber even strong enough to muscle Hardwick into a situation where she could get a noose around his neck and hang him? And if so, why would she want to kill him? What would be her motive?

  All the suspects felt like possibilities to Suzanne, yet none of them felt exactly right, either.

  * * *

  • • •

  “HEY, Suzy-Q,” Petra called out when Suzanne walked in. “How’s our big radio star?”

  “Tired of dodging questions about last night,” Suzanne said.

  Petra’s face crumpled. “I’ll bet you are. Toni told me all about it.” She touched a hand to her heart. “What a shocker. To find Hardwick hanging there like a sack of potatoes.”

  “It was the worst.”

  “I didn’t catch the whole broadcast, but I’m hoping Paula didn’t ask questions about it, did she?” Petra asked.

  “No, but that awful news director peppered me with questions and pretty much hung all over me.”

  “Stormin’ Norman Steed.”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “He’s a horse’s patootie.”

  Toni came blasting through the swinging doors into the kitchen. “Hey, I listened to part of your broadcast. I had the radio on while I set the tables and filled the sugar bowls.”

  “Did everything sound okay?” Suzanne asked.

  Toni gave a thumbs-up. “You were great. I bet people will be bringing in toys like crazy.”

  “Good,” Suzanne said. “Then the stress was worth it.”

  “Didn’t you once tell us, ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity’?” Petra asked.

  “No,” Suzanne said. “I think that was somebody . . . in publicity.”

  * * *

  • • •

  IT was Frittata Friday at the Cackleberry Club and Petra had dreamed up a doozy. Three farm-fresh eggs with mushrooms, spinach, bacon, and Monterey Jack cheese.

  “Say,” Toni said to Suzanne as they both flitted about the café, serving customers, pouring refills on coffee and tea, clearing away plates. “Can you believe how freaking busy we are? Our frittatas are selling like hotcakes. Even our hotcakes are selling like hotcakes.”

  “Good, it’ll help fluff the bottom line,” Suzanne said. She kept a watchful eye on their margin and was always mindful of the vast difference between making a living and making a profit.

  “But all our customers are buzzing about the murder. The second murder.”

  “Do they know we were there?”

  “Most of them don’t,” Toni said. “Not yet, anyway.” She motioned for Suzanne to join her behind the counter, where they’d have a modicum of privacy. “How are you doing?” Toni asked. “With Sam, I mean. Was he furious at you for sneaking into Hardwick’s house? Did he call off your engagement?”

  “That’s the weird thing. I thought he’d be stark-raving mad; instead he just asked me if I thought breaking and entering was the smartest way to spend my time.”

  “Ooh, that’s even worse than Sam going all bonkers on you,” Toni said. “Don�
��t you see what he did? He took the cool, rational approach. When somebody does that with me, I come down with a terrible case of the guilts.”

  “Except I don’t feel particularly guilty.”

  “That probably means you’re part sociopath. That your brain doesn’t feel bound by normal rules and conventions.”

  “Really, Toni? Really?”

  Toni gave Suzanne an evil grin. “Girl, I’m just yanking your chain.”

  The front door creaked open, letting in a gust of wind along with Gene Gandle, the reporter. “Suzanne,” he said, crooking a finger.

  Suzanne went over to Gandle. “Can I get you a table, Gene? Are you here for breakfast?”

  Gandle’s dark eyes seemed to twirl with light. “I’m here for the big story,” he said.

  Suzanne shook her head. “Sorry. No.”

  “But it’s all over the radio,” Gandle protested. “If WLGN has the story, why can’t I?”

  “If they have the story, they didn’t get it from me.”

  Gandle put a hand to the bow tie that poked out from his long gray winter coat. “The thing is, we’re thinking of putting out a special edition. An extra. Like major newspapers do when there’s a huge story like a war or an impeachment. I don’t think Kindred’s ever had two murders in one week before.”

  “If you want the dirt, you’ll have to get it from Sheriff Doogie,” Suzanne said.

  “But he’s already barred me from the Law Enforcement Center!”

  “Sorry, buddy, then I can’t help you.”

  “Not even if I give you top billing in the article?”

  “Especially if you give me top billing.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE rest of the morning was just as trying and frantically busy. Of course, the death of Teddy Hardwick was the numero uno topic of conversation in the café. A few customers eyed Suzanne and Toni, but most were too polite to ask questions outright. Instead, they speculated about Hardwick’s death, buzzed about a possible connection to Allan Sharp’s murder, and floated their own wild and wacky theories. Serial killers, terrorists, maybe angry survivalists who’d descended from the bluffs around Kindred.

  By the time lunch rolled around, rumors were flying even harder and Suzanne was ready to walk out the door.

  “Be cool,” Toni said. “Most of these folks are just plain scared. Two strange deaths in this town—really two murders—has everybody on pins and needles.”

  “Including me,” Petra called from the other side of the pass-through.

  “I wish Doogie would drop by for lunch,” Suzanne said. “I’ve got about a zillion questions I want to ask him.”

  “Oh, he’ll stop by,” Toni said. “Don’t worry about that. The man has an appetite that won’t quit. But I don’t think he’ll be in the proper frame of mind to answer any of your questions. He’s gotta be feeling tremendous pressure.”

  “Lunch orders are up,” Petra called out.

  Suzanne grabbed an order of Scotch eggs and a frittata, while Toni grabbed two burger plates and a bowl of soup. Once Suzanne had delivered her orders, she looked around the café and took stock of the situation. All her customers were munching away, conversing with one another, and looking relatively contented. So, blessed be, something was going right. Then she heard the door open. A latecomer. She turned, hoping it was Doogie, ready to pounce on him, only to find . . .

  “Sam!” Suzanne cried. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hoping to get some lunch.” Sam clapped his leather mittens together, making a soft whumping sound. “Are you not happy to see me?”

  “No, no, I’m bubbling over with delight,” Suzanne assured him. “I just didn’t expect to see you this soon.” Sam had run out of the house extra early this morning, chewing a piece of whole wheat toast and looking a little frantic. Had he been frantic about her? Was he starting to worry that they were no longer compatible?

  “I have something I want to run by you,” Sam said. He shrugged out of his sheepskin jacket to reveal his blue scrubs.

  Suzanne led him to a table and dropped into the chair across from him. “What?” Sam looked even more serious now. Uh-oh, is he going to break it off with me? Was the episode last night the straw that broke the camel’s back? Is there anything I can do or say that will win him back?

  “My weekend suddenly got complicated,” Sam said. “I told Bob Larabee that I’d fill in for him at the ER this weekend. He wants to drive up to Lutsen in northern Minnesota and take his kids skiing.”

  The wire that had been tightening around Suzanne’s heart suddenly relaxed. Sam wasn’t breaking it off with her. And thank goodness for that. In fact, now she felt deliriously happy.

  “So, you’re telling me that you’ll be working at the hospital all weekend?” Suzanne asked.

  “Yes. Starting tonight, in fact. Is that going to be a problem for us? I mean, if I’m reading you right, you look kind of happy about it. I thought you’d be disappointed.”

  “No, no, don’t mind my moods. Your ER gig is fine with me.”

  “I wanted to make sure you didn’t have anything special planned.”

  “You mean social calendar–wise?”

  “Or maybe a special dinner. Like prime rib or your ultrafabulous chicken Kiev?”

  “Why, Dr. Hazelet, was that a subtle hint-hint I just detected?”

  “Aren’t you the perceptive little minx.”

  “Don’t care to eat that hospital cafeteria food?” Suzanne joked.

  “Now that you mention it . . . no.”

  “Maybe I could swing by Saturday night and bring you some homemade chili?”

  “Suzanne, I would love that.”

  “And then you’ll be working Sunday, too?” she asked.

  “Only till four.”

  “Then I could probably fix chicken Kiev for you Sunday night.”

  “You see,” Sam said. “I knew there was a good reason I asked you to marry me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE afternoon flew by and still Sheriff Doogie hadn’t come in. Customers came in for coffee and pie, tea and scones, many of them dropping off toy donations. Finally, at three o’clock, when Suzanne was starting to give up hope, Doogie came slip-sliding into the Cackleberry Club.

  “Gettin’ cold and icy out there,” was his mumbled greeting.

  “Watch the floor, watch the floor,” Toni cried. “I just mopped.”

  “Jimminy Christmas,” Doogie yelped. “A guy can’t be expected to stomp every dang chunk of snow and ice off his boots.”

  Toni poked at his feet with her mop, then followed him halfway across the café, swiping up bits of slush. Doogie did a comic hurry-up shuffle, then sat down on his favorite stool at the counter.

  “Sheriff,” Suzanne said. She was standing behind the counter, facing him. “I thought you might be in for lunch today.”

  “Haven’t had lunch. Been too busy.”

  “Working on Hardwick’s murder? Because that’s what it was, right? Murder?”

  “I thought we established that last night. But before we get to talkin’, I’d like to order something. If the kitchen’s still open.”

  “It’s open,” Petra called through the pass-through. “What do you want?”

  “What do you guys recommend?” Doogie asked.

  “The frittatas are real good,” Suzanne said.

  “Then that’s what I’ll have. With genuine vegetables and none of that funky kale, okay? That stuff’s only fit for rabbits.”

  “I heard that,” Petra called out.

  “I meant you to,” Doogie said.

  Once Doogie’s lunch was up, Suzanne gave him ten minutes to eat, even though he only needed five since he inhaled food like an old-fashioned Hoover vacuum cleaner. So she was back in no time at all,
tempting him with a piece of marble cake. And asking questions.

  “So where are you on all of this?” Suzanne asked. She set the cake down and shoved a clean fork at him.

  “Hard to tell; these two murders have more twists and turns than a cheap garden hose.”

  “But you think they’re connected?”

  “Have to be,” Doogie said. “I mean, what are the odds they’re not?”

  “Do you think knowing they’re connected narrows down your pool of suspects?”

  Doogie took a bite of cake and bobbed his head. “Maybe. Somewhat.”

  “Are you still looking at Amber Payson?”

  “I paid her a visit just this morning,” he said as he chewed.

  “And?”

  “And she was unhappy . . . what else is new?”

  “Do you think Amber was having an affair with Teddy Hardwick?” Suzanne asked.

  “She says not.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I thought I had Amber cold for Allan Sharp,” Doogie said. “After their big office brouhaha. But for Teddy Hardwick . . . I’m not so sure.”

  “I saw Amber at the Hard Body Gym a couple months ago and she looked . . . how would you say it? She had a fairly slight build. Maybe a little too small for muscling around a guy like Hardwick. I don’t think it’s easy to hang someone, even if you’re holding a gun to their head.”

  “Was Amber lifting weights when you saw her?” Doogie asked. “Pumping iron?”

  “She was taking a yoga and meditation class.”

  Doogie ate another bite of cake. “Huh.”

  “Does Hardwick have relatives around here?” Suzanne asked.

  “Nope. Just his parents, and they live in Minneapolis.”

  “Have you talked to them yet?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s part of the job,” Doogie said. “The bad part.”

  “What’s the good part?” Suzanne asked.

  “Catching the asshole who murdered their son.”