by Laura Childs
Suzanne nodded.
“It’s got a miniature hologram. The kind you see on high-limit credit cards.”
“Maybe the card’s from your own law enforcement center,” said Suzanne. “The jail must have high-tech security.”
“We do, and nope, it isn’t,” said Doogie. “Wrong kind and color.”
“What about the hospital?” Suzanne proposed. “It’s got that depressing hospital-blue look.”
Doogie slid the key card back into his pocket and took a noisy slurp of coffee. “Don’t know. But at least it’s something to check into.” His flat, gray eyes drilled into Suzanne. “But that’s it. I didn’t find another darn thing out back.”
“How far was the key card from our building?” Suzanne asked. She figured it was a good way of determining how close the killer had actually come to her and Toni last night. How close they’d been to the fine edge of disaster.
“Maybe twenty feet or so,” said Doogie. “It was just lying in a little patch of dry grass. Not stepped on or anything. Like it had been dropped fresh.”
“Hmm,” said Suzanne, as Petra bustled out and placed a humongous platter of food in front of Doogie.
“Okay?” Petra asked.
“Better than okay,” said Doogie, already grabbing for his fork, blue napkin forgotten.
Suzanne thought for a few moments as Doogie tucked into his breakfast, “Anyone could have dropped it,” she reasoned. “There were lots of people here last night. Parked all around the place.”
“Yeah?” said Doogie, between bites. “But I bet no one called here and asked if you guys found a key card, did they? So it’s a clue. A good clue.”
“I see your point,” said Suzanne, as Toni edged up to the counter and dropped down on the stool next to Doogie. For some reason, it didn’t sag and creak under her weight as it did his.
“You find out anything about crossbows?” Toni asked.
“Did a little research,” Doogie told her. “They’re not as common as you might think. And I already checked with the DNR on how many bow hunting licenses were issued last year as well as this year in the three county area.”
“How many?” asked Suzanne.
“Five,” said Doogie.
Suzanne nodded. That could narrow it down.
“Anybody we know?” pried Toni.
“Nobody that stands out,” said Doogie, stabbing at a pancake. “A couple of brothers named Miller who live over in Deer County. A Jeb Brill who lives out by Borchard’s Corner. And another guy by the name of O’Dell.”
“O’Dell,” said Suzanne. “He’s been in here a few times. Strange duck.”
“How so?” asked Doogie.
“Kind of quiet in a weird way,” said Suzanne. “I can never get him to look me in the eye.”
“Lots of men are like that,” said Toni. “Shy guys.” She giggled, then added, “Not everyone’s a confident stud muffin like our sheriff here.”
Suzanne pursed her lips to avoid an outburst of hysterical laughter, while Doogie pointedly ignored Toni’s remark.
“You ticked off four names,” said Suzanne. “Who’s the other bow hunter?”
“Can’t recall at the moment,” said Doogie, shifting his bulk on the stool. “But it’s in my notebook.”
“I don’t think I know much about any of them,” said Toni, wiping her hands on her apron, looking suddenly apprehensive.
“On the other hand,” said Doogie, “it could be somebody who owns a crossbow primarily for target practice. Never applied for a hunting license.” He hesitated. “But he’s moved on to ... something else.”
Suzanne looked pained. “If it’s something else, we’ve got a real sicko on our hands. Someone quite determined.”
“I agree,” said Doogie. “Because Peebler couldn’t have been much of a target. Skinny, string bean guy like that.”
“Actually,” said Suzanne, “he made a fairly good target. The kitchen light was on behind him and the door was open. He was probably silhouetted perfectly.”
Doogie thought for a moment. “Ergo your clean shot.”
“Ergo?” said Toni, sliding off the stool. “Now you’re spouting Latin? Well, thank you, Aristotle.”
Aristotle was Greek, Suzanne thought.
Then Suzanne stared intently into Doogie’s eyes. “The shooter had to know what he was doing,” she theorized. “Because a crossbow isn’t a weapon for amateurs. You’d expect an amateur to use a gun, or a knife, or even the occasional cast-iron skillet. But a crossbow? That’s got to be premeditated.”
“Unless,” Doogie said, waffling slightly, “it really was an accident. Even the most skilled hunter can make a mistake.”
“Six times?” Suzanne asked, tallying up the number of arrows that had whooshed around the backyard last night. Two stuck in the wall, three on the ground, a fatal arrow in Peebler’s skull:
“Point taken,” said Doogie.
Petra emerged from the kitchen where she’d obviously been listening. “I just wish this whole thing would go away,” she told Doogie.
He gazed at her placidly. “It’s not going to. And besides, whoever shot Peebler was pussyfooting around in your woods. There’s no telling what they want or if they’ll come back.”
“Don’t say that,” said Petra, waving an index finger. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want anything tarnishing the Cackleberry Club’s reputation.” Petra shook her head and retreated to the kitchen, where she planned to alleviate her anxiety by punching out an innocent batch of sourdough.
“Where does someone even buy a crossbow?” Suzanne asked.
“Anywhere they sell hunting gear,” said Doogie. “Sporting goods stores, big-box stores, even on the Internet.”
“The Internet?” said Suzanne. “You can just order up a crossbow?”
“Cripes, Suzanne,” said Doogie, “where you been the last few years? Mars? You can buy a thermonuclear bomb on the World Wide Web if you search long enough.”
“Even I know how to use Google,” said Toni, strolling by again. Then her head whipped around and she added, “Or I should say ogle. Considering what just walked in.”
Four of Kindred’s volunteer firemen strolled to a vacant table, dressed in their navy blue uniforms. Young and hunky, each of the guys looked good enough to pose for a Playgirl magazine calendar.
“You look awfully busy, Suzanne,” said Toni, unbuttoning the top button of her fitted yellow cowgirl shirt “I’ll take care of these beefcakes ... uh, breakfast customers.” Toni scrambled toward the front door, her hips twitching, her stride morphing into a strut.
Suzanne turned her attention back to the sheriff. He’d managed to drip only a few splotches of syrup on his shirt A good record for Doogie. “So what else can you tell me about crossbows?” she asked.
Doogie chewed, then swallowed. “They’re fairly easy to use. You don’t need a lot of expertise or skill like with a regular bow and arrow.”
“How so?” Suzanne questioned.
“You aim the crossbow pretty much like a rifle,” said Doogie. “The smaller draw and cocking mechanism doesn’t require a terrific amount of arm strength.” He held up his hands, one near his chest, the other outstretched in front of him, as if he was actually brandishing the age-old weapon. “You just cock the device and shoot.” He let out a swooshing sound and rocked back on his stool for emphasis.
“Interesting,” said Suzanne.
“So even a woman could have used one last night to kill Peebler,” said Doogie. He bolted his last slurp of coffee and swung his bulk around. “Gotta go make the rounds of the area sporting goods stores now. Then I’m going to drop by Darlington College and have a talk with Jane Buckley.”
“You think Jane snuck back here and shot Peebler?” Suzanne snorted. “That’s just plain ludicrous. While you’re out chasing down a middle-aged museum registrar, the real killer is probably laughing at you.”
“Gotta start somewhere.”
“Not there,” said Suzanne.
<
br /> Doogie hesitated. “Then where, smarty-pants?’
Suzanne thought for a minute. “That key card you found? Maybe you should take a drive out to the prison and talk to Lester Drumrnond.” Drummond was the warden of the newly established, for-profit Jasper Creek Prison that hunkered like an evil empire on the outskirts of town. With its gray concrete and miles of razor wire, Suzanne considered the place an architectural eyesore of un-redeeming proportion. She’d lobbied hard against it, but Mayor Mobley had gotten his way, as he usually did.
“You want me to talk to the warden?” Doogie asked, frowning at her. “Be serious.”
“It’s a start,” said Suzanne.
“You know what your problem is?” said Doogie. “You just don’t like Drummond.”
“You got that right,” Suzanne answered, feeling no need to explain her dislike.
“Besides,” Doogie continued, “they probably got better security out there than just key cards.”
Let’s hope so, was Suzanne’s final thought.
Chapter Five
The breakfast rush at the Cackleberry Club ended at 10:42 a.m. on the dot, leaving Suzanne, Toni, and Petra less than twenty minutes to regroup and get the cafe ready for the next wave of famished townsfolk.
“At other cafes,” said Toni, as she wrapped knives, forks, and spoons in blue-and-white-checked napkins, “lunchtime begins at noon. Our customers come galumphing in at eleven.”
Suzanne placed the silverware rolls on the tables as she aligned chairs and checked sugar bowls. “They line up early for breakfast, too. Especially this morning.”
Toni nodded her head in agreement as she pushed her Fleetwood Mac T-shirt into the waistband of her jeans. For some reason, she’d changed shirts. Maybe because the day was getting warmer, maybe because Toni considered herself a Stevie Nicks sort of gal.
“I’m not surprised at our early eaters,” said Petra, carrying a tray of pumpkin oatmeal cookies into the cafe. “We’re midwestemers. Almost a farm community.” She slid open the door to the glass pastry case and placed the cookies, almost as big as Frisbees, inside. “People just have more get-up-and-go.”
Suzanne responded with a twinkle in her eyes. “If the Cackleberry Club was located in New York City, folks would still be banging on the door early in anticipation of your cooking.”
“But I wouldn’t be there.” Petra chuckled. “I like a small town with small-town values.”
“With the exception of last night,” Suzanne murmured, as Petra retreated to the kitchen with her empty tray.
Bang, bang went the front door.
“Here come noisy customers,” complained Toni, jabbing her broom at a bit of crinkle-cut fried potato that was stubbornly hiding beneath a chair.
“I think not,” said Suzanne, just as the door burst open and Ralph Reston stepped tentatively inside. Clad in olive drab overalls, he carried a familiar large, square cardboard box. “Hey, Ralph,” she called. The gentle giant of a man ducked his head in embarrassment. “Sorry, Suzanne,” he murmured, glancing down at his worn overalls and scruffy work boots. “I’m really not dressed good enough to come in your front door, but there was this yellow-and-black tape strung all around ...”
“Not to worry, Ralph,” said Suzanne. “You look just fine. Half of our male customers dress the same way you do. Besides, a working man’s uniform never goes out of style.” She was chattering a bit, nervous that Ralph might inquire about the crime scene tape. Bless his soul, he didn’t.
Ralph blushed and said, “I’ve got the eggs you gals ordered. This box and one more out in the truck.” Ralph started for the kitchen, carrying the box filled with twelve trays of jumbo brown eggs as if they weighed no more man a monarch butterfly.
Ralph and his wife, Matty, ran Calico Farm, the largest organic, cage-free poultry farm in Logan County. Their
eggs were nest-laid in comfy straw, not on an awful wire grid of an industrial farm. The hen’s treasures were gathered by hand as well, and the chickens were free to roam their yard or stay put in their sparkling clean henhouse.
Suzanne had evolved into a real stickler when it came to using the freshest, locally sourced produce whenever possible. Eggs from Ralph’s Calico Farm, cheeses from Mullen’s Dairy, fruits and vegetables from various local organic farmers. She and Petra even hoped to get an organic farmer’s market going in Founder’s Park next summer.
“Right this way,” said Toni, holding open the swinging door for Ralph.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Ralph. .
Toni clapped a hand to her chest “Yikes, Ralph. You just ma’amed me. A hit-and-run ma’aming. Please try to remember I’m still young enough to be your girlfriend.” When Ralph’s face turned beet red, she added, “Well, somebody’s girlfriend.” Ralph looked greatly relieved when the door swung shut.
“You ride that man something awful,” said Suzanne, glancing around.
“All in fun,” said Toni.
“Plus you’re still married to Junior,” Suzanne pointed out although she wished that Toni would finally make up her mind and file for divorce.
“Please don’t remind me,” said Toni. Then she glanced at her watch and said, “Jeez, I better refill ketchup bottles”
In a mumble meant more for herself than Toni, Suzanne said, “You could just forget about—” .
Toni interrupted. “Not on your life, Julia Child. And I’m not having this discussion one more time. If it were up to you, ketchup would be banned from the entire universe.
But most of our old-timers adore it. They squirt it on their eggs, hash browns, even their muffins. The same way ex-navy guys use Tabasco sauce.
“Agh,” said Suzanne, making a face.
“Not everybody lives by your standards, Suzanne.”
“Sorry,” said Suzanne. “Didn’t mean to foist my preferences on anyone.”
“Sure you did.” Toni grinned.
Fact is, that was exactly the case when the Cackleberry Club first opened and customers had been confused by the lack of deep-fried dishes.
“They’d eat fried butter if they could,” Suzanne had lamented.
“At the Texas State Fair I hear they do,” Toni declared.
But their customers had nibbled, experimented, and in the end, had been pretty much won over by Suzanne’s commitment to wholesome, fresh, good-for-you foods.
“You gonna do the blackboard?” Toni asked. Every day they listed their specials on the blackboard in colored chalk. It was another Cackleberry Club tradition.
“Yup,” said Suzanne, grabbing a piece of yellow chalk.
“Petra gave you the menu?”
But Suzanne was already printing chicken and peapod stir-fry at the top of the board.
“All right!” enthused Toni.
Suzanne added three more entrees: chicken chili, chicken divine, and a Tom T sandwich. Then she drew a cartoon slice of pie on a plate, added a starburst next to it, and wrote in sour cream apple pie, two-ninety-five a slice.
“Gonna have me a slice of that,” said Toni.
Just as Suzanne was dusting chalk dust from her hands, Dr. Sam Hazelet came rushing in. He was tall, in his early
forties, and awfully good-looking with tousled brown hair and devastating blue eyes.
Suzanne saw Sam, grinned, then grabbed his hand and led him into the Book Nook where they could enjoy a small amount of privacy amid the narrow aisles of romance novels, mystery novels, and cookbooks. For the past two months Suzanne and the good doctor had been quietly seeing each other. Dinners, an occasional movie, walks in Bluff Creek Park. Nothing terribly serious, but Suzanne felt it certainly could turn into something serious. An altogether surprising turn of events, she’d decided one night, when she’d caught herself humming away, to once again find someone that she cared for. Heartening, too. Proved that life does indeed go on.
“I just heard about last night,” Sam said, his voice and face filled with concern. “Why didn’t you call me?” He placed a hand on her shoulder and kne
aded it gently.
“Because by the time Peebler’s body was zipped into a body bag it was almost midnight?” she said, deadpan. “Or how about this. You’re a terrific doctor, but it never occurred to me you could actually raise the dead?”
“No,” he said, “I thought maybe you’d have called me because you were scared.” He paused. “Weren’t you scared?”
“For a couple of minutes, sure. Until all the shootin’ was over and Sheriff Doogie showed up.”
“And then?” asked Sam.
Suzanne gazed at him, her heart warmed by his caring and sincerity. No wonder people thought so highly of him as the town doctor. No wonder her heart skipped a beat every time she saw him. Probably screwed up her EKG reading, but it surely felt wonderful.
“You mean,” she asked, “did I think the killer would trail me home and try to pop me?” Sam nodded.
“Not really,” Suzanne answered, then decided if she’d been a tad wiser, maybe she should have been worried.
“You weren’t scared all by yourself in that great big house?”
“No,” said Suzanne. Then, “What are you getting at?”
“What do you think?” Sam winked.
She led him back into the cafe and sat him down at the table.
“Just lunch?” he asked, grabbing for her hand.
“Just lunch. And no need to peruse our blackboard, because I intend to order for you,” Suzanne told him.
“Who doesn’t love a surprise?” Sam replied, a lazy smile creasing his handsome face.
Scooting across the floor, dodging tables, Suzanne had to check her stride. My hips are swinging just like Toni’s, she told herself, feeling a little startled. Gotta watch that. Then. Oh heck. But it feels good to be happy. Then she checked herself again. As happy as one can be the morning after a murder.
Petra glanced up from the stove where she was sprinkling fresh ground pepper into a big pot of roasted corn chowder. “You’re looking awfully chipper,” she remarked.
“Sam’s here,” said Suzanne, trying to sound nonchalant but not having much success.
