by Laura Childs
“Too bad the Rogaine’s not working!” Toni shouted at him.
That brought an onslaught of loud laughter and guffaws from the two dozen or so customers.
Mayor Mobley turned bright red and glowered at Toni, even as Sharp grabbed his elbow and tried to usher him along. Toni flapped a hand and let loose her best Three Stooges impression. “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.”
Chapter Nine
After erasing the breakfast menu, Suzanne doodled a border of hearts and flowers around the edge of the blackboard, then set about listing the luncheon menu. Petra had seemingly outdone herself today with her featured deep-dish chicken pot pie. Made with chicken, fresh carrots and peas, and her own creamy gravy, the dish was baked in its own ramekin and arrived golden and bubbly at your table.
The sandwich today was rosemary grilled chicken. Home-baked rosemary-infused focaccia bread was slathered with mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, and chopped fresh rosemary. Then a skinless chicken breast, sautéed in garlic, pepper, and olive oil, was snugged between the two thick slabs of bread.
Vegetarian autumn stew rounded out their trio of entrees. A savory dish that combined diced sweet onions, butternut squash, sweet potatoes, carrots, celery, lentils, tomatoes, and set off with a tangy splash of apple cider vinegar.
Suzanne was getting hungry just printing out the specials, let alone inhaling the smells that wafted from Petra’s kitchen.
And just as she was scribbling at the bottom of the board, rounding out the menu with raspberry chocolate tart and honey walnut cake, Sheriff Doogie came strutting into tie restaurant. He nodded as he brushed past her, heading straight for the counter. His wide bottom eased onto the end stool; his elbows hit the counter.
“Coffee?” Suzanne asked him, sliding behind the counter. He was just the man she wanted to see.
“Much as you can fit in one cup,” Doogie told her in a weary tone. Then he reached for the sugar bowl, dropped in one lump followed by numero two and three.
Picking up on Doogie’s need for a sugar fix, Suzanne grabbed one of the apple turnovers from the pastry case, slid it onto a plate, and held it in front of Doogie. “Apple turnover?” she asked.
“You bet,” said Doogie, gazing at it hungrily.
Suzanne set it in front of him, like she was awarding first prize for a correct answer.
Doogie managed a quick bite, then asked, “Is everybody still talking about it?”
Suzanne knew the it Doogie was referring to wasn’t the special of the day.
“I’m pretty sure the entire town is still gossiping about Peebler’s murder,” she told him. “And will be until the killer is apprehended.” Of course they’d jaw and speculate. People were on edge. Weird, freaky assaults by crossbows didn’t happen every day.
“Until I apprehend him, you mean.”
“You’re the duly elected sheriff,” Suzanne told him, but not unkindly.
Doogie took a slurp of coffee. “Lucky me.”
“Excuse me,” said Suzanne, looking askance, “but aren’t you a candidate in this upcoming election, too? Didn’t you toss your modified Smokey Bear hat into the ring some months back?”
“That I did,” murmured Doogie. “Though things could change, you never know.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she warned him. “You’re a good sheriff; people here trust you.”
He cocked a rheumy eye at her. “Do they?”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course, they do.” At least I think they do. But you don’t need me planting any seeds of doubt. You‘ve managed to accomplish that all by yourself.
“Not all killers get caught, Suzanne,” said Doogie, looking both detached and philosophical as he said it. As though he’d taken a step back from the case.
“Not in this instance,” said Suzanne. “Not when you’re on the case.”
Doogie managed a half smile as he took another bite of turnover.
Leaning forward, Suzanne asked in a low voice, “So did you talk to Mike O’Dell?”
“I did,” said Doogie, chewing. “As well as his amusing spouse, Sasha.”
“And?”
“O’Dell’s a taciturn guy. Then again, you might be in a perpetually cranky mood if your wife was a stripper and brought home more money than you did.”
“Gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘bringing home the bacon,’” said Suzanne.
Doogie shrugged. “I guess strippers earn big bucks.”
“I think Sasha’s more of an exotic dancer,” said Suzanne.
Doogie raised an eyebrow, looking askance. “There’s a difference?”
“A slight technicality,” said Suzanne, wondering why she was even offering an explanation. “I don’t think the women at Hoobly’s actually remove their clothing.”
“So a lingerie show,” said Doogie. He sounded just this side of interested.
But Suzanne wasn’t buying it. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been out there!” She snorted.
“Only on official business,” said Doogie.
“Which just proves that Hoobly’s is a shady place. All kinds of things probably go on out there.”
“It’s not exactly the Knitting Nest.” Doogie sighed.
“Getting back to Peebler’s murder,” said Suzanne. “I’m assuming you’re ready to cross Jane Buckley off your list?”
Doogie pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nobody’s completely in the clear yet.”
“Surely Jane told you about the argument she had with Peebler,” said Suzanne, frustration evident in her voice. “A fairly nonsensical accusation on Peebler’s part about stealing antiques from his aunt’s house?”
Doogie chewed slowly and stared at her.
Suzanne continued. “Peebler accused Jane of trying to convince his aunt to donate a few items to the Darlington College art museum.”
“So she says.”
“Jane wouldn’t lie,” said Suzanne. “She’s not like that. Peebler’s rant was just that—a rant. He didn’t even know what items were missing.”
“And now Peebler’s gone, so we can’t ask him,” said Doogie.
Suzanne stared at him. “Dead men tell no tales?”
Doogie’s brow furrowed. “They do, it’s just a little tougher to pry it out of them.”
* * *
Lunch at the Cackleberry Club was a roaring success. Suzanne and Toni worked the cafe like a professional tag team, understanding each others needs before they were even articulated. Coffee was poured, plates delivered then whisked away, checks magically appeared. Petra, meanwhile, was basically on lockdown in the kitchen, preparing order after order and shoving them out the pass-through with breathtaking speed.
When everyone had a sandwich, soup, or dessert in front of them, Suzanne took a well-deserved breather. But Toni spotted a potential problem. Or maybe a business opportunity, depending on the way you looked at it.
“We’ve got a ton of people wandering around in the Book Nook,” she told Suzanne.
“Then that’s where I’m headed,” said Suzanne, pulling her long, black Parisian waiter’s apron over her head and stashing it behind the counter.
“Call me if you need help,” said Toni.
“Call me if you need help,” replied Suzanne.
Secretly, of course, Suzanne was always thrilled to spend time in the Book Nook. Reading was her passion, and she loved nothing more than unpacking a new box of books, fingering their uncracked spines, and arranging them on the narrow wooden shelves. There was something satisfying about the fact that so many lovely thoughts and spellbinding plots were contained between those covers. How, she wondered, could anyone ever abandon a lovely, highly tactile paper book for a mechanical e-book?
At one-fifteen, Petra emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming cup of tea. She gazed about the cafe with satisfaction, then delivered the tea to Suzanne.
“Thought you could use this,” said Petra.
“Bless you,” said Suzanne, taking a quick sip.
“To me taking a break means escap
ing into the far-off flavors of tea from around the world,” said Petra. “Thailand, India, Ceylon, or good old China.”
“Where are we flying off to today?” asked Suzanne, playing along.
“Nepal,” said Petra. “By way of organic Kenchajanga green tea.”
“Perfect,” murmured Suzanne.
But perfection is often short-lived. Because just as Suzanne was taking a second dreamy sip, Junior Garrett stumped his way into the Cackleberry Club.
With his chin stuck out, his stride clipped and determined, Junior looked like a bandy rooster who’d just invaded the henhouse. His dark hair was swooshed into a pompadour that would have made James Dean proud, and he’d slathered on enough grease to start a forest fire. Junior’s tight, straight-legged jeans and black bowling shirt with the name “Junior” stitched in white thread polished off his look.
If it had been the mid-1950s instead of 2011, Junior Garrett would have been considered a cool cat. Now he was just considered a quirky anachronism by most, a juvenile delinquent by Suzanne.
‘Too bad the community theater’s not having a casting call for West Side Story” Petra remarked. “Junior would be a shoe-in for one of the Sharks.”
“You gals talking about me again?” asked Junior. A sardonic grin was plastered across his face; a toothpick was clamped firmly between his teeth.
“Just small talk,” replied Suzanne.
“Aww,” said Junior, clearly hurt.
“What are you doing here?” Toni asked, as she came hurtling out of the kitchen. “You know I told you never to drop by without calling first!”
Theirs was a marriage in crisis. An abrupt union that had been fueled by overactive hormones, too much Jack Daniel’s, and a lack of functioning brain cells. Although Toni had tried valiantly to make the marriage work, it was apparent the relationship had cooled even before their plane touched down on its return trip from their Las Vegas nuptials.
A few months later, the cake was iced when Toni discovered a piece of purple net lingerie in the backseat of Junior’s car. Confident it wasn’t hers—since she wore red and a size smaller—she promptly tossed Junior, his toolbox, and various rebuilt motors, out of their apartment. Now they lived apart, in a kind of netherworld of bickering and making up. Not completely in love, but not quite ready to file for divorce, either.
“Did you get fired?” Toni demanded of Junior. Grabbing the back of his collar she steered him to a table and forced him into a wooden chair.
Junior gazed up at her with round, innocent eyes. “No! Cross my heart! I’m still workin’ diligently at Shelby’s Body Shop.”
Suzanne and Petra shuffled in to watch the show. If you were in the right frame of mind, Junior could be pretty darned amusing. Fodder, almost, for a TV sitcom. Think Fonzie meets Homer Simpson.
“You sure you’re still working?” Toni asked, bunching her right hand into a fist. “Because I’ll clock you if....”
“Whoa, whoa!” said Junior, putting up an arm in mock defense. “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? Seriously, babe, I just dropped by to get a bite.”
Toni glanced up at Suzanne. “What do you think?”
Suzanne gave a shrug. “If the man’s hungry, I say go ahead and feed him.”
“Just do it quick,” said Petra, making her escape. Then she called back over her shoulder, “Thank goodness we’re not real busy.”
Toni brought Junior a leftover chicken sandwich and a bowl of vegetable soup. “Watch out,” she warned him, “that soup is so hot it could boil your eyeballs.”
Junior nodded. “Okay.”
“And you’re going to have to pay for this,” Toni nattered. “We’ve catered to enough freeloaders for one day.”
“Jeez,” said Junior, “will you chill out? I got money. I can pay.”
“Still raking it in at Shelby’s, huh?” said Suzanne. Honestly, how much could a guy make repairing fenders and ironing out dents? On the other hand, maybe quite a lot.
“I got something going on the side, too,” Junior told Suzanne. He gave a cocky, knowing look as he took a big bite of sandwich.
Toni looked unhappy. “What are you talking about?’ To the best of everyone’s knowledge, none of Junior’s harebrained; get-rich-quick schemes had ever panned out. Not the Cuban tax haven, plastic antenna balls, or bait business.
“I’m going into the scrap metal business,” Junior boasted.
“Excuse me?” said Toni.
“There’s money in that?” Suzanne asked.
“Oh yeah,” said Junior, suddenly looking more confident. “Me and Marsh Freedman are gonna be partners.”
“Isn’t Freedman the guy who used to wander through town with a plastic sack, picking up pop cans?” Suzanne asked, trying to stifle a grin.
“Ancient history,” said Junior, waving a hand. “Now we’re partners, fifty-fifty.”
“And what does this partnership entail?” asked Suzanne. She was a tiny bit fascinated by Junior. It was probably the same fascination a mongoose felt for a cobra. A bit of danger, but still that hypnotic lure.
“We’re going to scour the countryside in our truck,” Junior told her, delighted to have an audience. “Picking up discarded car parts, old farm equipment, appliances, milk cans, bedsprings, tire rims, pretty much anything we can get our hands on. Then we’ll sell it at the scrap yard over in Jessup.”
“No kidding,” said Suzanne. The whole idea sounded sort of old-timey, like something from the forties, when people supposedly donated tin cans and scrap metal to the war effort.
“Of course, the really primo stuff is copper,” Junior said, knowingly. “You can pull in three bucks a pound for scrap copper, did you know that?
“Where exactly are you going to find this scrap copper?” Suzanne asked.
Junior looked suddenly evasive. “Around.”
“Hmm,” said Toni, in a suspicious tone.
Petra leaned out of the kitchen, rubbing flour from her hands onto her red calico apron. “Suzanne? I just remembered, we still need to order pumpkins for Saturday night. With all we’ve got going this week, we could easily overlook it.” Saturday night, Halloween night, they’d planned a huge outdoor Halloween party at the Cackleberry Club. Complete with decorations, costume contest, live music, bobbing for apples, fire pit for roasting hot dogs, cider and doughnuts, and a major theatrical surprise.
“Hey!” exclaimed Junior, “I know a guy who’s got a bumper crop of pumpkins.”
“No, thanks, Junior,” said Suzanne, “I’m going to ...”
But Junior persisted. “No, seriously. This guy owes me a huge favor, so I can get you guys a whole truckload of pumpkins for free.”
“How’s that?” asked Suzanne. Maybe Junior really could help.
“This guy had a car accident but didn’t want to tell his wife,” Junior explained. “It was her car, a Toyota Celica, and he was just this side of tipsy when he had a close encounter with a bridge abutment”
“Why am I not surprised?” said Toni, rolling her eyes.
“Anyway,” continued Junior, “I ironed out the dent and touched up the paint Made it look good as new, all on the QT. And now he owes me big-time.”
“Really,” said Suzanne. What with a Quilt Trail Tea, Mystery Tea, book signing, and Halloween party going on this week, maybe Junior really could lend a helping hand.
Junior hooked a thumb and touched his chest, trying to look important. “You need pumpkins? I’m the guy who can hook you up.”
“We’re talking pumpkins,” said Suzanne. “Vegetables. Members of the squash family. You’re acting like we’re dealing in human body parts.”
Junior was undeterred. “Still,” said Junior, “I’m your connection.”
An hour later, Suzanne and Petra sped through downtown Kindred, heading for the Westvale Medical Clinic. They’d taken off an hour early, determined to drive as much of the Quilt Trail as possible, Toni had agreed to hold down the fort until closing, then drive Baxter to Suzanne�
�s house and feed him his cup of kibble. Doggy day care at its finest.
“What’s in your care package?” Petra asked, as Suzanne pulled into the clinic’s parking lot “Soup and scones for Sam, scones and sticky rolls for everyone else.”
“Good for you,” said Petra. “I hate to see anything go to waste.”
“Believe me, it won’t,” said Suzanne, climbing out of the car. “You gonna wait here?”
Petra pulled her nubby sweater around her and nodded. “I think so.”
Suzanne dashed into the clinic, exchanged hugs with Esther, the clinic manager, then handed over all her loot.
“Wow!” exclaimed Esther, peering in the larger bag. “Thanks loads. And it’s all low cal, right?”
“And low carb,” said Suzanne. “Especially the sticky rolls.”
You want me to give Sam a buzz?” Esther asked. She was cheery and upbeat, dressed in pale blue scrubs. “I can see if he’s free.”
“No,” said Suzanne, “Petra and I are driving the Quilt Trail today. Gotta run.”
“Oh fun,” chirped Esther. “I’m hoping to do it this weekend.”
“You’re still coming to our Halloween party on Saturday night, aren’t you?” asked Suzanne.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Esther called, as Suzanne skipped out the door.
“That was quick,” said Petra, as Suzanne climbed in and turned the key in the ignition.
“We’ve got a... what?” said Suzanne. “Thirty-five-mile drive ahead of us?”
“Something like that,” said Petra, studying the map. “Maybe more. First the log cabin, then the round barn, then...”
“Seat belt,” Suzanne reminded her, as she backed out, noting Sam’s BMW parked three stalls down. She smiled, glanced in the mirror, and happened to catch a quick reflection of Lester Drummond, the prison warden, emerging from the Hard Body Gym next door. He was a big man with shaved head, craggy face, and a forehead full of worry lines. Suzanne always thought Drummond had the kind of hard face and hard muscles that came from serving hard time. Except, of course, Drummond ran the prison.
Drummond had just tossed his Nike gym bag into his black SUV, as Suzanne swung around in a turn. He nodded at both of them and gave a perfunctory wave.
