by Laura Childs
“I thought you’d never ask.”
They took their time. Suzanne lit scented vanilla candles and put on soft music. Then, like a couple of innocent college kids on their first date, they held hands and kissed. A prelude to their first night together.
Afterward, just hovering on the edge of sleep, Suzanne and Sam cuddled like spoons.
A soft snore, from Baxter, not Sam, caused Suzanne to glance over at the doggy beds where the two dogs slumbered and twitched.
“Do you think Scruff might have been attacked by wild pigs?” Suzanne murmured.
Sam wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer. “Looked more like he was roughed up by another dog.”
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday was Crabby Omelet day at the Cackleberry Club, but this morning the usual fun and frivolity was somewhat diminished. Pans still rattled, plump sausages sizzled on the grill, coffee cups thunked on the marble counter, but talk among the three women was tense and terse.
“The thing is,” said Toni, as she busily shredded a chunk of cheddar cheese, “I can’t help wonder who’s next?”
“Don’t say that,” said Petra. Hunched over her stove, she cracked eggs into a large ceramic bowl. “Please don’t talk like that.” Grabbing a wire whisk, she went to work on the eggs, swirling and whipping them into a froth.
“I say that because we now have two murders on our hands,” said Toni, throwing a cautionary glance at Suzanne. A warning look that clearly said, Petra’s in a mood.
“Not on our hands,” snapped Petra, liberally sprinkling salt and pepper into her beaten eggs.
“They kind of are,” Suzanne said, finally. “Since the first murder happened right here and the second one... well, I don’t have to explain that to you.”
“Man,” said Toni, shaking her head and looking both distracted and sad. “It must have been something, discovering poor old Wilbur Halpern like that.”
“Someming awful,” agreed Suzanne.
“People are really going to chatter now,” said Petra, peeling open a package of fresh crabmeat.
“You mean talk about us?” said Suzanne.
Petra nodded silently.
“There are always a few people who’ll gossip and spread rumors,” said Suzanne. “We just need to keep a level head on our shoulders and our answers to the bare minimum.” And hope Doogie comes up with some answers fast, she wanted to add.
“But what,” asked Toni, “is really going on? Ouch!” she yelped, almost grating her own finger.
“Doogie’s probably going to blame Jane again,” Petra snapped.
“No, he won’t,” said Suzanne. “Doogie’s not going to do that. Not now. Not after last night.”
“It’s possible the two murders are unrelated,” said Toni. “But, somehow, it doesn’t feel that way.” She stabbed at the last bit of cheese. “You probably won’t be surprised to hear that Mike O’Dell has moved up to suspect number one on my list.”
“Mine, too,” said Petra. “If you could have seen him last night...”
“A very scary guy,” agreed Suzanne. “You could feel a definite threat level.”
“You think Wilbur Halpern might have been trying to impress Doogie?” asked Toni. “I mean, obviously Doogie told him about O’Dell having a bow-hunting license, so maybe Halpern decided to follow up on his own. Only he somehow ... blew it.”
“Blew his brains out,” muttered Petra.
“Petra!” said Suzanne. “Of all of us you’re the one who’s always the most positive.”
“Not today,” said Petra. “Not when I have to face Winnie Halpern at church.”
“Got it,” said Suzanne. She grabbed a loaf of zucchini bread, started cutting it into chunks.
“Time to change the subject?” Toni asked. “Maybe go over the specials?’
“Petra?” Suzanne glanced over at her friend and chef.
“Crabby Omelets,” said Petra, without her usual preamble. ‘“With hollandaise sauce. A breakfast parfait of vanilla yogurt, cubed zucchini bread, sliced almonds, and cranberry topping.”
“Tasty,” said Toni.
“And Jumpin’ Jack scrambled eggs,” said Petra. “Plus we have our full complement of ham, spicy sausage patties, and turkey bacon.”
“People always roll their eyes when I tell them it’s turkey bacon,” said Toni.
“Then don’t tell them,” said Petra. “Just say bacon.”
“Is that kosher?’ asked Toni. “I don’t mean the bacon, I mean to deceive our customers?”
Petra just shook her head and frowned. “Lord knows, I don’t want to be the one responsible for half of Kindred dropping dead from coronary infarctions.”
“Okaaaay,” Toni murmured.
“On a happier note,” said Suzanne, “Petra’s quilt looks beautiful hanging over our front door.”
“Doesn’t it?” said Petra, brightening a notch. “I had one of the fellows who’s helping rebuild the church next door drag his ladder over and put it up.”
“So are we going to be able to pull ourselves out of our blue funk and have a successful Quilt Trail Tea this afternoon?’ asked Toni. They were co-hosting the tea with the historical society and were expecting around thirty customers.
“I was so looking forward to the tea,” said Petra, “but Wilbur’s murder puts a terrible damper on things.”
“I just hope it doesn’t scare people off,” said Toni.
“Arthur Bunch already called, worried about that exact same thing,” said Suzanne.
“He’s still coming, isn’t he?” asked Petra. Bunch was scheduled to deliver his little talk midway through the tea.
“He’ll be here,” said Suzanne. “I told him the tea was still on. That it was possible Wilbur’s murder would bring in even more people.” She glanced out the pass-through toward the front door, where a half dozen people were already lined up.
“You can bet Gene Gandle will have a big, splashy article in the Bugle tomorrow,” said Toni.
“Gene does adore his bylines,” Suzanne tossed back over her shoulder, as she went to unlock the door.
“Isn’t this Waffle Wednesday?” a bearded man in overalls asked Suzanne, as she stood at his table, pen poised above her order book.
“That was last week,” she pointed out. ‘Today’s different. Crabby Wednesday. Crab omelets with hollandaise sauce are our special today.”
“You should have seen the waffles!” Mr. Overalls exclaimed to his companion. ‘They had waffles with apple and raisin sauce, even Belgian waffles stacked a mile high with caramelized bananas and whipped cream.” He grinned at Suzanne. “If you have a sweet tooth like I do, it was one fantastic breakfast.”
“So,” Suzanne said with a smile, trying to move the ordering process along. “Two Crabby Omelets with hash browns?”
“Done,” said the man in the overalls, though he looked a little wistful.
As more customers poured in, the mood seemed to lighten. Petra, who usually hid out with her eggs, even stepped out of the kitchen to deliver an order of French toast to a friend seated at the counter.
“You’re looking decidedly more upbeat,” Torn remarked, as they both hastened back into the kitchen. Then Suzanne came running in with another order for a Crabby Omelet.
“I’m feeling better,” said Petra. “But we’re perilously low on crabmeat.”
“Which means your omelets are a big hit,” said Suzanne.
Petra looked thoughtful. “Think I could substitute shrimp?”
“Shrimpy omelets?” said Toni. “Sounds weird to me.”
“Sounds delicious,” said Suzanne. “But let me check with a couple of customers.”
She came back forty seconds later and nodded at Petra. “Shrimp it is. Only with baby Swiss cheese instead of cheddar.”
“I agree,” said Petra.
Toni plunked her bottom on a wooden stool and said, “You know what? I was watching The Bachelor last night and all those women were soooo competitive. They were,
like, scratching each other’s eyes out to get a rose from that poor goombah and try to win his heart”
“What would you have done?” asked Suzanne. “I mean, in their place?”
“I dunno,” said Toni. “Be nicer than they were.” She glanced at Petra. “How about you, Petra?”
“Lay around and read a book,” said Petra. “Hope he picked somebody else.”
“Hah,” said Toni, poking an index finger at her. “Good one.
Five minutes later, the wall phone in the kitchen jingled.
“I’m up to my armpits in egg yolks and flour,” said Petra. “Suzanne?”
Suzanne grabbed for the phone, then was glad that she had. Sam.
“How you doing today?” he asked.
“Good.”
“Just good?” He was toying with her now. “You can’t talk?”
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, on a score of one to ten...”
‘Twelve,” she told him.
“Wow. And I was just warming up.”
“I don’t know,” said Suzanne, her cheeks a little flushed now. “I thought it was all amazingly hot.”
“Excellent. So how’s the dog?”
“Scruff’s doing great,” Suzanne told him.
“You’ve named him,” said Sam. “That’s a dangerous sign. You can give away a nameless dog, but never a dog with a cute name.”
They chatted for another couple of minutes, then Suzanne hung up, hoping she didn’t look as excited and tingly as she felt way deep down inside.
“What was that about?” Toni asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
Suzanne tried to muster a look of supreme innocence. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing,” said Toni. “More like ... oh, I don’t know, hot stuff?”
Suzanne put an index finger up to her mouth and pulled Toni into their small walk-in cooler. “If you must know, Sam stayed over last night.”
“Finally!” cheered Toni. She pumped an arm and said, “You go, girl!”
Midmorning found Suzanne in the Book Nook, experiencing an emotional roller coaster that alternated between nervous giggles and a seriously manic high. She knew she wasn’t in love with Sam, but she sure was in like.
Humming to herself, a slowed-down version of Beyonce‘s Single Ladies, Suzanne grabbed the new John Sandford novel and stuck it on the shelf. Found a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh that sure didn’t belong in the Mystery/ Thriller section. But when she checked me Children’s section, she found that was the last copy. So time to order.
Suzanne stepped behind the desk and jotted a note. When she looked up, Carmen Copeland was standing there staring at her.
“Jeez!” Suzanne clapped a hand to her chest, startled.
“Scared you?” Carmen sounded pleased, in an evil kind of way.
“Kind of,” said Suzanne. Carmen Copeland was a prominent romance author who lived in me neighboring town of Jessup. She was snooty, snotty, exotic-looking, and the New York Times bestsellers she consistently churned out
had made her rich. Which meant she could indulge her taste in clothes and jewelry and always wrap herself in the latest couture. Today her red silk jacket and black pencil skirt were pure Dolce and Gabbana, paired with four-inch-high, Dior red alligator pumps.
Because Carmen considered herself a fashionista and far superior to everyone else in matters of taste and style, she’d recently opened Alchemy Boutique in downtown Kindred. Suzanne figured it was Carmen’s twisted, fiendish scheme to bring fashion and flair to what she perceived as the dowdy women of Kindred. But to Suzanne’s surprise and—dare we say it, disappointment?—Carmen’s plan was working. Women were actually buying J Brand jeans, bright-colored faux furs, and oversized cocktail rings at Alchemy. Surprise, surprise.
“How can I help you, Carmen?” Suzanne asked.
Carmen stared at her with glittering green eyes. “Did you forget?”
“Um... no, of course not.” Carmen’s upcoming event had slipped her mind, like a pat of butter off a stack of griddle cakes.
“I’d like to briefly review the menu for Friday’s Cashmere and Cabernet event which you, ahem, agreed to cater?”
“Absolutely,” said Suzanne, gritting her teeth. Carmen was staging a trunk show at Alchemy, a first ever for Kindred. Vendors for Rock & Republic jeans, Marc Jacobs boots, and Donegal cashmere sweaters were coming in to set up shop and woo customers.
“You do have the menu prepared?” Carmen asked, in a challenging tone.
“Let me run into my office and grab it,” said Suzanne. ‘Take a seat if you’d like.”
Carmen looked askance at the two rump-sprung floral upholstered chairs that squatted invitingly in the Book Nook. “Thanks anyway,” she said in a nasal, peer-down-your-nose tone of voice.
Suzanne dashed into her office, took forty seconds to scratch out a menu, then was back in a flash.
“Carrot and ginger tea sandwiches and miniature crustless quiche, just like we discussed. Plus I was thinking of adding lobster salad and cucumber cream cheese sandwiches.”
“Mmm,” said Carmen. “And madeleines and chocolate mousse bars?”
“Absolutely,” said Suzanne, though she knew she’d have to conjure up a few good recipes.
“Fine,” said Carmen. Reaching into a tan Birkin bag, she pulled out a leather notebook and pen.
“How’s Missy doing?” asked Suzanne. Missy was Melissa Langston, a friend of Suzanne’s and now Carmen’s overworked boutique manager.
“She’s fine,” said Carmen. She clicked her pen and with a friendly barracuda smile, said, “Now tell me about the murders, Suzanne.”
“Oh, Carmen,” said Suzanne, trying to muster a look of disappointment, “I really can’t do that.”
“Of course you can, dear.”
Suzanne shook her head. “I’m under strict orders from Sheriff Doogie.”
Carmen toyed with a strand of her long, dark hair. “I understand you were witness to both murders.”
“Not exactly,” said Suzanne.
“The first one was here at the Cackleberry Club,” said Carmen, doodling on her pad. “The arrow.”
Suzanne managed a tight nod.
“And the one last night...” Carmen’s eyes danced with eagerness. “The hapless deputy shot with his own service weapon. That you once again discovered.”
“Are you by any chance planning to write a book about this?” asked Suzanne. “Move beyond the romance genre into police procedural?”
Carmen dimpled prettily. “You never know.”
“I certainly admire your creative bent, Carmen,” said Suzanne, “but I really can’t spill any details.”
“Very well,” said Carmen, looking cool and calm, “then I’ll get them somewhere else. And make no mistake, I will get them.”
“I believe you,” said Suzanne. And she really did.
As Carmen made a big fuss of tucking her notebook back into her bag, she bumped a small sign on the counter, causing it to topple over. She frowned, picked up the sign and read it, then frowned again. “You’re having a book signing here on Thursday?”
“A local author is joining us for our Mystery Tea,” explained Suzanne. “Julie Crane.”
“Never heard of her,” said Carmen, her voice going frosty. “And what exactly has she written?”
“A nonfiction book,” said Suzanne. “Ghostly Lore and Legends. Really a compilation of area haunted house legends, published by Palette Press at Darlington College. Kind of fun, but in a slightly academic way.”
Carmen’s ruby red lips pursed together to form a perfect oval. “Oh. A small, local publisher. So this woman isn’t an actual author. Not an author anyone would have heard of.”
“Julie’s not been on the New York Times Bestseller List, no,” said Suzanne.
Carmen, who’d enjoyed her fair share of trips to that much-coveted list, gave a self-satisfied smile. “Mmm. Pity.”
Ten minutes later, Sheriff Doogie walked into the Cackleberry C
lub. Not with his usual cocky saunter, but with a deliberate slowness, as though his joints ached and he was toting the weight of the world on his broad khaki-clad back. He maneuvered to the counter and sat down heavily, his shoulders drooping, his bloodshot eyes cast downward.
Suzanne and Toni exchanged worried glances. Toni grabbed a coffeepot and headed straight for him, while Suzanne’s tactical weapon of choice was a sticky bun drizzled with caramel and covered in pecans.
“How ya doing, Sheriff?” asked Toni, plunking the coffee in front of him.
Doogie gave a vague nod.
Suzanne slid the sticky bun, always a surefire cure for what ails you, in front of Doogie.
“No, thanks,” said Doogie. He shrugged and pushed the plate away.
Suzanne’s eyes grew wide with shock. This was serious business. She’d never—repeat, never—seen Doogie turn down food.
Doogie sighed deeply, twined his fingers around the coffee mug, and took a sip. No fussing with multiple cubes of sugar, no tsunami of heavy, artery-clogging cream. Suzanne knew Doogie hadn’t suddenly gone on a Dr. Oz-type wellness kick and put himself on a Spartan diet. Rather, he was punishing himself, probably overwhelmed by guilt and frustration about last night.
“What’s wrong, Sheriff?” Suzanne asked him. She knew what was wrong but wanted to hear Doogie articulate it. Maybe, if she could get him talking, she could get him fired up again.
Doogie looked up, focused rheumy eyes on her, and said, “I shouldn’t have been so hard on Wilbur. Shouldn’t have pushed him.”
“You were teaching him,” said Suzanne. ‘Toughening him up so he’d be a better deputy.”
“Didn’t work,” said Doogie.
“You don’t know that,” responded Suzanne.
Doogie took another sip of coffee and grimaced. “And I shouldn’t have cussed at him.”
“Well, no, you really shouldn’t have,” Suzanne said in a soft voice. “But that’s...” She paused to think. Was the phrase “water over the dam”? Or under the bridge? Or both?
“The thing is,” continued Doogie, “Wilbur was a pretty good kid.”
“He always tried very hard,” said Suzanne, reaching across the counter to pat Doogie’s burly hand, “and he was a very kind boy.”
