by Laura Childs
“Aren’t you the lucky lady,” said Toni, who was standing at the butcher block table, tossing a salad. Carrots, florets of broccoli, and bits of red pepper clunked against the sides of the large industrial-sized metal bowl.
“Let me guess,” said Petra, as she added judicious amounts of garlic paste, jalapeno peppers, green chilies, and fresh cilantro to her soup, tasting and sniffing, as if she was concocting a magic potion. “You want me to whip up an order of breakfast egg pizza, even though it’s not on the menu today.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Could you?” answered Suzanne. It was one of Petra’s specials. A whizbang of a dish. Not completely heart healthy, but surely heartwarming.
“And you’re requesting this, let’s call it what it is, special order, even though I have a dozen other orders to get out?”
“Um ... yes?” said Suzanne. She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet in anticipation of Petra’s answer.
Petra looked up and gave Suzanne a cool, appraising look. “Lord, that man better be the best kisser in Kindred.”
Toni stopped tossing the salad and moved closer, the better to overhear.
“He is,” Suzanne said in a small voice.
“Okay then,” said Petra. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of love.”
“Love?” said Toni, looking supremely interested now. “Really? I never heard the L word mentioned before.”
Suzanne slipped an arm around Petra’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze, then keeping her lips pressed together in a smile, slipped back out into the cafe. Toni’s remark could be addressed at a more appropriate time. Like... later. Once she figured out where she and Sam were really heading.
Much to Suzanne’s surprise, the cafe was suddenly buzzing with customers. Which meant she had to hurry up and seat four parties, dole out emergency cups of coffee to two tired truckers, and explain the concept of afternoon tea to two farmers who’d apparently stuthed every word
printed on the little table tent that advertised the Cackleberry Club’s afternoon tea.
“So the sandwiches are small?” asked the first farmer.
Suzanne held out her thumb and forefinger to show him. “So-so.”
“And what kind?” asked the second farmer.
“Chicken salad, cream cheese with cucumber, smoked salmon roll-ups, and sometimes we do creamy goat cheese with crushed pineapple,” she explained.
“Can men come?” asked the first farmer.
“Of course,” said Suzanne, stifling a giggle. “There’s no gender requirement for enjoying tea. And we won’t even make you wear white gloves or a fancy hat”
Then she and Toni started taking orders and the fun began in earnest
‘Two bowls of chicken chili and a Tom T,” Toni yelled through the pass-through to Petra. A Tom T was a Cackleberry Club concoction, a sandwich of sliced turkey breast spread with homemade apple butter, sprinkled with blue cheese, and grilled on two slices of artisan wheat bread. Sometimes it was served with sweet potato crisps, today it came with a salad.
A few minutes later Petra slid the chilies through the pass-through. “Suzanne,” she called. “Your special’s up.”
Suzanne grabbed the dish and hustled it over to Sam. “Here you go,” she said, setting it down in front of him. “Enjoy.”
“My goodness,” he exclaimed. Then he took a bite. “Oh joy,” he mumbled as he chewed. “This is fantastic.” Only it came outfantashtic. “This is ... what is this?”
“Our special breakfast egg pizza,” said Suzanne. “With pork sausage, red pepper, and cheddar cheese.”
“So much better than hospital cafeteria food,” Sam enthused.
“Don’t swoon over it too much,” Suzanne advised. “Because we’ve also got pie for dessert.”
Of course, Sam didn’t get away completely free. A parade of townsfolk stopped by to bid him hello.
“Hey, Doc, how ya doing?” Clyde Hunsicker asked, edging his large, jiggly frame close to the table.
“Fine, Clyde, and you?” Sam responded.
“I got this little crick in my back and my right knee is...”
Overhearing this little exchange, Suzanne shook her head. She knew the drill. Her husband Walter had been constantly pressed for free medical advice, too. Like he’d always said, a small-town doctor was never off the clock.
“We’re jammin’,” sang out Toni, as she slid by Suzanne with a tray full of soup bowls and a fresh pot of coffee. “Gettin’ it done.”
“Has anybody asked about the murder last night?” Suzanne asked Toni in a low voice.
Toni did a hasty double-take and scrunched up her face in amazement. “Are you kidding? That’s all they’ve been asking about.”
Suzanne pulled her mouth into a lopsided frown. “Maybe they’ve just been too polite to say anything to me.”
“Maybe,” said Toni, but she said it like she didn’t believe it. Then she saw the look on Suzanne’s face and said, “Cheer up, hon, they’ve also been asking when Petra’s gonna make her pumpkin crème brule.”
And just when things couldn’t get any crazier, Mazy Goddard strolled in with a basket stacked with loaves of homemade cranberry nut bread.
“Is this a bad time to make a delivery?” Mazy asked. She was a wiry sixty-something lady with a feathery cap of white hair who still managed to run the occasional half marathon. She was also a baker par excellence.
“Not a problem,” Suzanne told her. “Just stack your bread in the cooler, as usual.”
Just outside the Knitting Nest, Suzanne had installed a sputtering old cooler whose shelves were continually stocked with an array of homemade banana and cranberry breads, jars of dill pickles, canned jellies and jams, vegetables, and organic blue and cheddar cheeses. These were items that local producers brought in for the Cackleberry Club to sell. It was really a win-win situation for everyone. Suzanne took a small percentage of retail sales and the growers and producers got the lion’s share. She knew one woman who’d helped finance her daughter’s cosmetology classes on what she made from selling her line of organic baby foods.
“In fact,” said Suzanne, grabbing one of Mazy’s loaves, “I’ll take one of these myself.” She made her way to Sam’s table, set the bread down, and said, “This is for you. A take-home goodie.”
His eyes crinkled. “That’s it? There isn’t any more?”
“Sour cream apple pie?” she asked.
“Mmm, I had something else in mind.”
Suzanne walked Sam to the door, didn’t kiss him though she wanted to, and proceeded to clear a few tables. This was the time she enjoyed most at the Cackleberry Club. Lunch practically over, sliding gracefully into an afternoon of coffee, tea, and desserts. Much easier to manage, nobody in an all-fired rush.
She carried the gray plastic bins to the counter and stuck them in back. Then Suzanne waved through the pass through at Petra, and said, “Thanks for the special.”
Petra gave her a quick grin, then her eyes shifted and her smile froze on her face.
“What?” said Suzanne. Then she realized Petra was focused on something behind her. Spinning on her heels, Suzanne caught sight of Jane Buckley standing at the front door. The woman’s shoulders were slumped; her face seemed in turmoil.
Oh no, thought Suzanne. Doggone Doogie.
Then Jane was speeding across the cafe, wiping tears from her eyes as Petra came careening out of the kitchen to meet her.
Jane collapsed in Petra’s strong arms, her tears spilling freely now. “Last night’s murder...” she sobbed.
“What? What?” Petra murmured in sympathetic tones.
Jane sniffled, rubbed at her nose, then wailed, “Sheriff Doogie says I’m the number one suspect!”
Chapter Six
“Do you need a glass of water?” Suzanne asked. “Or maybe a cup of tea?” Jane was slumped in a big, comfy chair in the Book Nook, her demeanor a fragile mix of rage and woe. Petra sat on a lumpy footstool, holding Jane’s hand and making soft
cooing sounds.
“Only if it has a dram of gin in it,” Jane managed to answer. Then added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound snippy. It’s just one of those museum-world clichés. The old maid who sits at home nipping Bombay gin or drinking dry sherry while tending a herd of cats.”
Suzanne made a noise in the back of her throat. “You have cats?”
“Just two,” said Jane. “Which is actually well within the normal range.” She coughed, then added, “And truth be told, I don’t drink much at all, except for a single glass of wine last night to help me relax in case I actually met someone.” She pulled a hanky from her handbag and blew her nose loudly. “And now look at me, a messy little lump of sadness.”
“You’re not, either,” said Petra.
“What exactly did Doogie say to you?” asked Suzanne.
Jane let out a breath of despair. “He said I was at the top of his suspect list”
“He has a list?” Petra asked, skeptically.
“What were his exact words?” asked Suzanne. “Did Doogie say you were on his list because of your fight with Peebler?”
Jane edged herself farther back into the comfort of the upholstered chair and nodded. “I didn’t realize every single person in the Cackleberry Club overheard us.”
“I doubt they did,” said Petra, always the staunch ally.
“But the whole town’s talking,” said Jane. “Sheriff Doogie told me so himself.”
“The whole town’s not talking,” said Petra.
“Yes, they are,” said Toni, suddenly appearing in the doorway. She held a tray that contained an ornate red teapot and three small Chinese-style cups. “Everybody’s been buzzing about the murder all morning and I don’t think it’s going to stop anytime soon.”
“They’ll stop,” said Petra, as if her strength and iron will could make it so.
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Suzanne, accepting the tea tray from Toni. “Thank you.”
“You bet,” said Toni, backing away.
“Everything okay out there?” Suzanne asked. She didn’t want to leave Toni in the lurch for afternoon tea.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” said Toni.
Petra poured a stream of jasmine tea into a teacup and handed it to Jane. “Straight tea, no cream or sugar.”
“You always remember how I like my tea,” Jane murmured. “You never forget anything.”
“Or anyone,” said Petra smiling warmly at Jane. “Now, tell us what we can do to help.”
Jane took a quick, appreciative sip of tea and said, “Since you brought it up...”
“Because if you want me to speak to Doogie ...” began Petra. “Really let him have it...”
Jane plucked nervously at the sleeve of her blouse. “Actually, I came here to ... um ... ask Suzanne for help.”
“I see,” said Petra, in a quiet voice.
“What?” Suzanne yelped.
“The thing is,” said Jane, turning an imploring look on Suzanne, “you were so smart about straightening out that terrible mess when Ozzie was killed.”
“Oh, not so much,” said Suzanne. She waved a hand, trying to make light of it, make it seem like a minor little incident.
Jane continued in a rush. “And, of course, you’re awfully close to Doogie.”
Suzanne grimaced. “Not really.”
Petra gave Suzanne a level gaze. “Sure, you are. You two went to school together.”
“He was a few years ahead of me,” said Suzanne, as her brain whirred into overdrive. How to get out of this? she wondered. Just beg off nicely? Sure, that’s the ticket. Petra will probably even back me up. She knows I really don’t want to get involved in chasing down suspects in Peebler’s murder.
“Obviously,” said Petra, furrowing her brow and staring directly at Suzanne, “Jane really needs our help. And by that I mean your help.”
So much for backing me up, thought Suzanne. “I could probably recommend a good attorney.”
“No!” cried Petra. “We’re not at that point yet!”
“Listen,” said Suzanne, crossing her arms in front of her, trying to look as uninvolved as possible. “Doogie already knows how I feel about Jane as a suspect. I told him he was wasting his time.”
“Thank you,” said Jane. “I think.”
“Then what’s the harm in your speaking with Doogie again?” asked Petra. “Surely you could make him understand that Jane wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
Suzanne was feeling frustrated. “There’s always a risk I could make things worse! When you defend something once too often, Doogie has a tendency to use the ‘doth protest too much’ argument.”
“It’s probably the only line from Shakespeare he can quote,” stewed Petra.
“Please,” Jane implored Suzanne. Tears sparkled in her eyes then spilled down her pale cheeks. “Couldn’t you just try to talk to him?”
In the end, of course, Suzanne relented. Agreed to speak with the duly elected Sheriff Doogie and make an impassioned plea regarding Jane’s innocence.
With one small codicil.
“I have to ask this,” said Suzanne. “What were you and Chuck Peebler arguing about last night?”
“Oh, it’s really stupid,” said Jane, waving a hand.
Suzanne stood firm. “You still need to tell me.”
“The thing is,” said Jane, “I used to be friends with Peebler’s aunt.”
“The one who died last month?” asked Petra.
Jane gave a thoughtful nod. “That’s right, Evelyn Novak. A very nice lady. Caring and socially committed. She even donated a couple of nice paintings to the Darlington College art museum. Anyway, Peebler was asking me about some antiquities his aunt owned that were missing from her house.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” huffed Petra.
Suzanne peered at Jane. “Excuse me, but Peebler thought you stole them?”
“That was the basic gist of the conversation,” said Jane, giving Suzanne a baleful look. “Chuck Peebler seemed absolutely convinced that I strong-armed his aunt into donating them to the museum.”
“Why would he think that?” asked Petra. “Why would he jump to that conclusion?”
“I suppose because the items are missing?” theorized Jane. “Because she’d donated items before?”
“And you are the registrar,” Suzanne murmured. She thought for a minute. “What exactly are these items that are missing?”
Jane shrugged. “No idea. Peebler wouldn’t tell me, just kept haranguing me, saying, ‘You know what they are!’ and treating me like I was some kind of criminal.” Jane stared worriedly at Suzanne, then at Petra. “But you know I wouldn’t... I couldn’t...”
“We know you wouldn’t, dear,” said Petra, patting Jane’s hand.
Suzanne placed an index finger between her brows and massaged her frown lines. Decided this was all very strange.
A half hour before closing, Arthur Bunch strolled into the Cackleberry Club. As he quickly scanned the cafe, his stack of Quilt Trail brochures shifted in his hands and began to spill.
Suzanne dashed forward and made a quick save before the colorful brochures hit the floor. “Slippery buggers,” she said, grabbing for them.
“Thanks, Suzanne,” said Bunch. “Guess my mind is elsewhere.”
Suzanne noticed Bunch’s oversized black galoshes with his tweed trousers stuffed inside. “It’s wet enough for rain gear?” she asked.
Arthur gave a quick smile. “No, but it’s about to start spritzing any minute, so I got all suited up.” He offered a lopsided grin. “I plan to drive the entire Quilt Trail tonight and make each and every stop. I want to make sure everything is perfect!”
“Have you eaten yet?” Suzanne asked, feeling sorry for this quaint middle-aged man in his tweeds and boots. She’d seen Bunch at garage sales and tag sales, rummaging through piles of clothing, and figured that’s where he found his slightly out-of-date tweedy wardrobe. On the other hand, a civil servant, especially one who work
ed at a small county historical society, didn’t exactly pull down a hefty income.
Arthur shook his head as his eyes lit up. “No lunch yet. Been awfully busy.”
“We’ve still got scones and chicken chili,” she told him. “Have a chair and we’ll get you fortified.”
Bunch stumbled to a table, sat down heavily, then gazed up at her, a worried look shadowing his face. “I heard what happened here last night,” he murmured. And now he looked slightly unnerved. “Mr. Peebler was shot with an arrow?”
“A special kind of arrow,” said Suzanne. “From a crossbow.”
“That a fact?” Now Bunch looked even more worried. “A ghastly way to go. Just like in the days of King Arthur or Cromwell. Do you know, does the sheriff have any idea who ... ?”
“No idea,” said Suzanne. “Sheriff Doogie’s really just begun his investigation.” And I guess so will I.
The mild-mannered Bunch was still unsettled. “Because the idea of a random killer... you know, like that crazy sniper who stalked the Washington, D.C., area some years back?’
Suzanne nodded.
“A random killer would be utterly terrifying,” said Bunch. “I hope it’s nothing like that,” he added hastily.
“The sheriff’s thinking it was probably an isolated incident,” said Suzanne.
“If even a hint of worry gets out,” said Bunch, “it could affect the Quilt Trail. A lot of people have worked extremely hard to make this happen.” He bobbed his head for emphasis. “We’ve got historical sites all over the county that are scrubbed and polished and staffed with hardworking volunteers. Plus we’ve been promoting it like crazy for the last three months.”
“I know you have,” said Suzanne.
“Plus the smaller merchants, like antique shops and cafe’s, are counting on an influx of tourists for this event,” said Bunch. “Business has been tough for them these last couple of years.”
“I hear you,” said Suzanne, as she counted her blessings once again. For some reason the Cackleberry Club had weathered the vicissitudes of a bad economy. Whether it was the cozy cafe, the Book Nook, or the Knitting Nest that attracted people, there had been a steady uptick in their bottom line. They hadn’t scored a huge profit, mind you, but they were making a decent living.
