by Laura Childs
“Sasha,” said Suzanne, not recognizing the name. “I don’t think I know her.”
“That’s ‘cause you don’t go to Hoobly’s,” said Toni.
“That’s right,” Suzanne agreed. “And neither should either of you ...” She caught herself. “However, that’s a discussion better left for another day. So ... Kit, tell me exactly why you think Sasha might be involved in Chuck Peebler’s murder?”
“Because Sasha wasn’t afraid to stand up to Peebler,” said Kit. “She was tough and tenacious and even threatened to kill him if he ever laid a hand on her.”
“You actually heard her say this?” asked Suzanne.
Kit nodded vehemently. “So did some of the other girls. And Frankie, the owner.”
“Huh,” said Suzanne thinking. She picked up the bottle of Barolo, poured the last half inch into her wineglass, picked up the glass, and swirled it around, contemplating what Kit had told her.
“What’s Sasha’s last name?” Suzanne finally asked.
“O’Dell,” said Kit.
“Oh crap,” said Suzanne. She was pretty sure O’Dell had been one of the names on the deer-hunting licenses that Doogie had tracked down via the DNR.
“What’s wrong?” asked Toni, suddenly on the alert.
“Nothing, I hope,” replied Suzanne. “But we have to tell Doogie.” She made a slight grimace. Better to get it all out in the open. “The thing is, Doogie’s already talked to the DNR officials about bow-hunting licenses and O’Dell was one of the names they gave him.”
“Holy moley,” said Toni, giving a low whistle, “I think you’re right.”
“I really didn’t come here to get Sasha and Mike in trouble,” said Kit, a touch of defiance creeping into her voice.
“You know,” said Suzanne, “I think it might be a little late for that.”
Chapter Eight
“You think Kit’s friend is in trouble?” asked Petra, standing at her butcher-block table, chopping onions. “What was her name again? Sasha?”
“Yes, I do,” said Suzanne, watching Petra’s knife flash back and forth. “Or maybe Sasha’s husband is.” She’d brought Petra up to speed on the conversation from the night before because she wanted to get her take on the situation.
“I guess you can’t go around threatening to kill a guy,” said Petra, “even if he is a no-good jerk.” She chopped furiously for a few moments, then looked up and blinked. “Do you think anybody else in Kindred knows Peebler was a no-good jerk?”
“Only if they patronized Hoobly’s,” said Toni, as she bumped open the swinging door and made her way into the kitchen. “If they hung around to shoot a little eight ball or check out the dancers.”
“And all the while Peebler put up a carefully cultivated front,” said Petra. “Passed himself off as a trusted pillar of the community, managed to get himself on the ballot for mayor. He was even vice president of the Downtown Booster Club, for gosh sakes.”
“Now they’ll just have to boost without him,” said Toni.
Petra dumped a heaping pile of chopped onions into an aluminum bowl already filled with chopped red peppers. Today was Hot Mama Frittata day at the Cackleberry Club and Petra was prepping like crazy. “What irks me is that I would have voted for Peebler! If he hadn’t been killed, that is.”
“A lot of people would have,” said Suzanne.
“Want to know what’s really sad?” Toni asked, pouring herself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “Peebler’s secret life practically makes our incumbent Mayor Mobley the moral choice for mayor. That and his untimely death.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” said Suzanne. “Mobley’s just as bad. Maybe worse.” She’d heard constant rumors about Mobley’s improprieties regarding zoning committees and planning boards. Grease his chubby little palms with greenbacks and your building or zoning plans, no matter how unfavorable to Kindred, would get rubber-stamped and shoot right through city hall, like grain through a goose.
“Oh no!” Petra screamed. Then lost her focus and dropped her knife on the floor.
‘Toes up!” shouted Toni.
“What’s wrong?” asked Suzanne. Petra was generally unflappable, but this Peebler dung really had her going.
Twin spots of color bloomed on Petra’s cheeks. “I just remembered that I donated twenty dollars to Peebler’s mayoral campaign.” Now she looked really worried. “Do you think the money ended up as tips at that strip club?”
“Strippers have to make a living, too,” reasoned Toni. “Although Kit and the gals prefer to be called exotic dancers.”
“Same thing,” snorted Petra, as she ferried her bowl to the stove.
Toni moved in closer to Suzanne. “When do you think Doogie’s gonna pay Mike O’Dell a visit?”
“I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already,” said Suzanne. She’d called Doogie first thing this morning and related all the information pretty much the way Kit had presented it. Doogie had listened carefully, thanked her, and promised to follow up.
“You spilled the beans to him, didn’t you?” said Toni. “About Sasha.”
“You knew I would,” said Suzanne. “Besides, Doogie’s not a complete idiot. He’d have gotten around to Mike O’Dell sooner or later, and then he’d talk to Sasha and probably even the manager...”
“Frankie,” supplied Toni.
Pans rattled on the stove. “At least Doogie’s not sniffing after Jane anymore,” Petra reasoned. “So thank goodness for that. Now we can get on with our busy lives.”
“I suppose,” said Suzanne. But somehow, she didn’t think solving Peebler’s murder was going to be that cut-and-dried.
“We’re supposed to open in twenty minutes,” said Petra, “and I’m not nearly ready for the breakfast rush.” As she grabbed for a mixing spoon, the sleeve of her white chef’s jacket caught a glass measuring cup filled with dry oatmeal and sent it tumbling to the floor.
“Incoming!” said Suzanne.
“Oh doodlebug!” yelped Petra, doing a quick two-step away from the flying glass. “Now look what I did.”
“Don’t anybody move,” said Toni. She grabbed a broom and dustpan and began sweeping up broken pieces of glass. “Besides, you can’t cry over spilled...”
“Oatmeal,” finished Petra, shaking her head and making a growling sound. “You know what? I feel like all the nervous tension I have about Jane and Peebler is going to shoot straight out my fingertips and end up in my cooking.”
Toni stopped sweeping and peered at her. “Um... seriously? Because that sounds decidedly paranormal to me.”
But Petra wasn’t about to be deterred. “Yes, seriously. When my heart and mind are filled with loving thoughts, the food is lovely, too. But anger and fear will only ...”
“Stick in your throat,” said Toni. “Okay, I’m getting your message loud and clear.” She paused. “You’re not going to start speaking in tongues or anything, are you?”
“Well hardly,” said Petra, looking a little annoyed.
“I know what,” said Suzanne, grabbing a cream-colored Red Wing crock from where it sat on a top shelf. “Let’s take a couple of moments for an affirmation.” Whenever the ladies needed to lift their mood or feed their spirits, they reached for the crock instead of the cookie jar. Well, almost every time.
“Yeah, let’s,” Toni enthused. The crock was filled with inspirational thoughts and quotes they’d jotted down and tossed in. The only exception being the note Toni had taped on the outside, which read, “Open in case of spiritual emergency!”
“You first,” said Suzanne, pushing the jar toward Toni.
Toni reached in and pulled out a yellow Post-it note. Unfolding it, she read, “Your talent is God’s gift to you. What you do with it is your gift back to God.” She smiled. “I’m feeling better already.”
“I knew you would,” said Suzanne. She pushed the crock toward Petra. “Now you, Petra.”
Taking a deep breath, Petra drew out a little scrap of paper, then read it aloud. �
��I know God won’t give me
anything I can’t handle. I just wish He didn’t trust me so much.” Her face was lit with a smile now. “Mother Teresa said that.”
“Sounds more like you,” Toni told Petra.
“Maybe we’re kindred spirits,” Petra murmured.
“I know you are,” said Suzanne, pulling out her own note and unfolding it.
“I hope you drew a doozy,” said Toni.
Suzanne read it, then gave an acknowledging nod. “I think I did.”
“What’s it say, honey?” asked Petra.
Suzanne cleared her throat then read, “Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.”
“That’s you, Suzie Q!” Toni declared. “CEO, CFO, PR lady extraordinaire, tea connoisseur ...”
“And chief bottle washer and dog trainer,” finished Petra. “Group hug?’
“Group hug,” agreed Toni, the three of them huddling together, arms flung across each other’s shoulders, heads bowed as they contemplated their affirmations as well as the coming day.
Finally, Suzanne glanced at the clock. “Okay,” she announced, “time to roll.”
“Don’t forget the love!” Toni called after her.
Five customers were already lined up outside the Cackleberry Club by the time Suzanne unlocked the door. By the time they were seated, another twenty had arrived.
“Oh my gosh,” said Toni, as she raced around the cafe “we’re getting slammed.”
“Slammed equals business,” Suzanne told her when she caught up to her at the pastry case. “Which translates into revenue.”
Toni suddenly looked interested. “Maybe I can buy those new baby blue cowboy boots I’ve had my eye on.”
“Hey, you two,” Petra called from the pass-through, “stop fooling around and take some orders!”
Suzanne dashed into the kitchen. “I’ve got orders.” She glanced at her order pad. “Two Hot Mama Frittatas, a short stack of cakes, and a Cackleberry scrambler.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Petra, as she grabbed a brown egg from a bowl of eggs and cracked it one-handed.
“You still want to drive the Quilt Trail this afternoon?” Suzanne asked. She was fanning out strawberry slices on top of a wedge of pineapple. Garnishes, in her opinion were meant to be eaten. And if they were healthy, so much the better.
“Absolutely,” said Petra. “And I can’t wait to get a gander at the oversized squares that my quilting friends created to mark the historic points.”
“It’s a nifty idea, all right,” Suzanne agreed.
“Oh hey,” said Petra, dishing out scrambled eggs and sausage. “Toni’s orders are up. Will you take them out to her?’
“Gladly,” said Suzanne. But when she ran out into the café and handed the orders off to Toni, a new problem suddenly presented itself.
Mayor Mobley stood poised in the front door of the Cackleberry Club, his chest so puffed with pride he looked like a balloon from Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. He was dressed in his finest, which, as always, looked discount store tacky. His bright lime green golf shirt stretched tight across his prominent stomach, his khaki slacks were a
muddy pinky beige. Three of his own oversized campaign buttons, featuring a slightly smudged image of his piggy, pudgy face, were pinned to his shirt. Atop his head, a fluorescent golf cap sported a button, too. Still, his outfit did exactly what the mayor had hoped to accomplish. Everyone in the restaurant turned to stare.
Ever the campaigning politico, Mayor Mobley grinned and waved at those folks seated near him. Most nodded and waved back. Allan Sharp, his flunky campaign manager, stood a step behind him.
Suzanne sped over to greet the mayor. “Good morning, Mayor,” she said pleasantly. “Can I get you a table?” Since she seemed to be stuck with Mobley for the moment, she was bound and determined that he was going to sit down at a table and eat, not just wander around at will, annoying her customers as he tried to solicit votes.
Allan Sharp answered instead. “Sure, we’ll take a table.” Sharp was tall and angular, with greasy black hair slicked back from his receding hairline. His movements were jerky and odd and, for all his apparent thinness, his stomach pouched out like he’d just digested an entire rump roast. Sharp wore a gold golf shirt and khaki pants, but took his persona one step further with a heavy gold ID bracelet, gold neck chain, and double rings on his thin, spidery fingers.
Mayor Mobley held up a hand. “Give me a minute. I want to greet my constituents.”
“You mean my customers?” Suzanne shot back, as Mobley dove for the nearest table.
“With the election just a week or so away, you can’t blame the mayor for shifting into full campaign mode,” Sharp explained to her in a dreary monotone.
Suzanne pulled out a chair and instructed Sharp to “sit!” Just as if she was training Baxter.
Sharp complied, but said, “We’ve only got time for a cup of coffee. Lots of hard-charging on our agenda today.” His thin shoulders hunched forward and he managed a dry chuckle. “We’re running this pretty much like an old fashioned whistle-stop campaign.’
“That so?” said Suzanne, failing to see any apparent humor in his words.
Sharp’s long face turned sober. “Just because his opponent’s dead, Ms. Dietz, doesn’t mean we can afford to sit back and twiddle our thumbs.”
“Strike while the iron is hot, huh?” said Suzanne.
Sharp frowned. “When you put it that way ...”
Suzanne had never cared for Allan Sharp and now she decided her dislike ran even deeper. Sharp was a snake-in-the-grass lawyer who’d made money in real estate by buying large homes from elderly townsfolk and flipping them to yuppie types who thought they wanted to live in a small town without all the problems of a big city. Then, of course, they moved to Kindred and discovered that, even with its picturesque old Chicago brick buildings and Catawba Creek running through, it still had all the problems of a big city. Burglaries still occurred, cars were vandalized, the infrastructure of bridges and roads continued to crumble as time marched on. Drug dealers and a few unsavory types stalked the tree-lined streets where craftsman cottages and stately American Gothic homes sat side by side, seemingly unaware of the myriad changes taking place.
Suzanne grabbed a tray, placed coffee cups, napkins, and spoons on it, then pulled a fresh pot of French roast off the burner. She carried it all to Sharp’s table.
“So kind of you,” oozed Sharp, watching her pour out coffee and arrange the cream and sugar.
Suzanne tallied up a check and slapped it down on the table, lest he think the coffee was gratis. “Always happy to oblige a paying customer,” she said, flashing a brusque smile. Dodging away, Suzanne skirted around the mayor, who was going great guns now.
“The election’s only ten days away!” Mobley sputtered to a couple of farmers, who appeared colossally bored.
Suzanne sidled up to the counter where Toni was garnishing a toasted bagel with sliced strawberries and a pat of cream cheese.
“The mayor’s acting like Peebler is still among the living and gaining momentum,” said Toni. “Instead of lying in a pine box over at Driesden and Draper Funeral Home.”
“We’re just not used to a candidate with a professional campaign manager,” Suzanne replied in a sardonic tone.
“No kidding,” sniggered Toni. “Most candidates just put up a couple of signs, pass out a few flyers, and hope for the best.”
“Mobley must have been seriously worried about having Peebler as his opponent,” observed Suzanne. “Since he hired Allan Sharp to be his flunky.”
Toni lifted her chin and indicated Mobley. “He’s not nervous anymore,” she said in a cryptic tone.
Suzanne stared across the cafe at Mobley. He was smiling, swaggering, and gobbling up any and all attention he could garner. No, he’s not worried anymore, she thought. And a nasty ping echoed in the back recess of her brain. Not one bit nervous about the competition, because there is no c
ompetition.
As Toni went back to her bagel and Suzanne measured out spoonfuls of English breakfast tea into a cheery paisley teapot, Mayor Mobley steamrolled his way to the counter.
“Hrnhmhm,” he coughed, in an effort to attract their attention.
“Mayor?” said Suzanne, turning. “Something we can do for you?”
“Ladies,” he said, spreading his legs apart and posturing like Yosemite Sam, “I wanted to extend my sincere sympathy concerning the terrible events here the other night.”
Suzanne almost believed him, until she realized that Mobley’s voice was booming across the cafe and he was checking the crowd’s reaction via his peripheral vision, making sure they were all aware of his Academy Award worthy performance.
“Sure thing, Mayor,” said Suzanne. She’d had an earful of his false sympathy and was hoping he’d go away.
“Chuck Peebler was a darn good man,” Mobley continued. “A worthy opponent.”
“Was being the operative word,” murmured Suzanne. “Wouldn’t you say so?”
Mobley’s eyes suddenly flashed with rage, then narrowed into piggy little slits. “You implying something, Suzanne?” His words were an angry hiss.
“If the shoe fits,” said Toni, adding her own two cents’ worth.
Expelling a raspy sound, Mobley spun on his penny loafers and headed back to the table where Allan Sharp waited patiently. Mobley sat down, sipped at his coffee, and a whispered conversation ensued. Then they both rose from their chairs and headed for the door.
“Will you look at that?” exclaimed Toni, sticking her pencil behind her ear and clamping her hands on her hips in
defiance. “They left the check sitting on the table. They’re skipping out on the tab!”
“Let it go, Toni,” urged Suzanne. “It’s not worth a confrontation.”
Toni, not always one to listen to reason, took a step out from behind the counter and called after them. “Hey, Mobley!”
Mobley stopped, turned, and glanced back at her. If looks could kill, Toni would be laid out stone-cold on the floor.
