by Laura Childs
Doogie looked up, as in a daze. “Was he?”
“Sheriff,” said Suzanne, trying to offer some comfort, “you had no way of knowing what would happen to Wilbur.”
Doogie stared at her. “I’m a law enforcement officer. Wilbur was a law enforcement officer. Every second we’re at work we run the risk of putting ourselves in a dangerous situation. We should always be... vigilant.” He was barely able to choke out this last word.
“I understand that”
“But Wilbur’s mama won’t,” said Doogie.
“No,” said Suzanne, “I don’t suppose she will.” Her fingers toyed with the plate that held the sticky roll, then she slid it across the counter. “Have a roll. It’ll make you feel better.”
“No, it won’t,” said Doogie, reaching out a big finger to tow the plate in. “But I’ll have it anyway. Sugar will do me good.”
“Probably will,” said Suzanne, deciding it was definitely time to change the subject. Doogie seemed poised on the verge of a self-pity jag. “Have you, uh, found out anything more about the key card you discovered out back?”
“I did,” said Doogie, chewing, “and it’s no big deal. Belongs to the courthouse. So anybody who works there could have dropped it.” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Heck, you yourself said lots of different folks were here Sunday night for that reading thing.” He continued to munch.
The courthouse? Mayor Mobley’s fleshy face suddenly swam before Suzanne’s eyes. The courthouse was where the mayor worked, where he manipulated his shady little deals.
So... maybe Mayor Mobley was involved in Peebler’s murder after all. But... and this was a big but... had Mobley been that greedy and nervous about winning a small-town election to protect his self-interests? Could Mobley have shot Peebler because the handwriting on the wall predicted he was going to get booted out of office?
Of course he could have shot Peebler, Suzanne decided. Mobley is a conniving weasel capable of almost anything.
Okay, hold everything. What about Deputy Halpern? Had the deputy been about to get on top of the mayor about something, but Mobley struck a preemptive blow? Had Mobley lured Halpern out into the middle of nowhere and
shot him? Or simply followed Halpern when he was on patrol?
Maybe. Possibly. Though that theory was predicated on the fact that Wilbur had figured something out.
Suzanne glanced at Doogie, wondering if she should voice her suspicions. On the other hand, she knew she was conjuring up some fairly wild notions that she really couldn’t prove. And she surely didn’t want to burden Doogie any more than he already was. So ... what to do? Maybe, like industrial-strength coffee grounds, she should just let this mess percolate for a while longer?
For now, yes. Yes, I will.
Doogie was mumbling something as he garnered up his hat and slid off his stool.
“What?’ Suzanne shook her head. “Sorry.”
‘Talk to you later,” said Doogie, giving her a kind of half salute.
“Count on it,” responded Suzanne. She tracked him to the door, watched Doogie through the front window as he hefted himself into his cruiser. “Well, that’s just ducky,” she muttered out loud, irony tingeing her voice.
Then the front door banged open and a tall man caromed in. Head bobbing atop his stalk like neck, Gene Gandle, the Bugle’s persistent and insanely intrepid reporter, made a beeline for her.
“Suzanne, we gotta talk,” he gasped. “A double murder!” Gene’s eyes danced crazily. “This is big time stuff!”
Chapter Fourteen
“Kindred has its very own serial killer!” exclaimed Gene, practically bursting with warped civic pride.
Suzanne wasted no time in lambasting the reporter who sat at her counter. “Shush, Gene, you don’t know that for a fact!”
“But we might,” Gene taunted back.
“No way,” said Suzanne. “Highly doubtful.”
“Then a double murder,” said Gene, gleefully.
Suzanne shook her head like a disapproving schoolteacher. “A double murder is when they’re related.”
“Who says they’re not?” asked Gene.
He had her there. Obviously, she wasn’t the only person in Kindred who’d made a leap to that conclusion. Probably, weird old Freddy, the bartender down at Schmitt’s Bar, had come up with the same idea.
Suzanne grabbed an order pad and a pencil. “You here for lunch?” she asked.
“Sure,” responded Gene, “I’ll take anything on the menu as long as you’re willing to open up to the press.”
“You’re not press, Gene,” said Suzanne. “You write human interest stories on church suppers, bingo nights, and the occasional frost warning. And you peddle advertising on the side.”
“It’s still press.” Now Gene’s voice carried a petulant tone.
“Whatever,” said Suzanne, “I’m still not going to blab any details to you.”
Gene gave her a sly look. “You will if you want customers to keep coming back to the Cackleberry Club.”
“Excuse me,” said Suzanne, leaning toward him, “but do I detect a threat in your words? Or, worse yet, would you be trying to blackmail me with some sort of wild expose?”
“Draw your own conclusions,” said Gene.
Suzanne let loose on him. “If you dare to implicate the Cackleberry Club in any way, I’ll call up Laura Benchley and have her deep-six your story in a heartbeat.” Laura Benchley was the editor of the Bugle and a friend of Suzanne’s. “And maybe even get your precious press card pulled.”
“What about freedom of the press?” whined Gene.
“What about placing an order?” snapped Suzanne.
“Are you ignoring Gene?” asked Toni. She stood at the counter, her back to the cafe, assembling a sandwich for a take-out order. Roast beef, cheddar cheese, slices of Vidalia onion, and mustard. With a fat, juicy slice of heirloom tomato for good measure.
“You got that right,” said Suzanne. “I figure if we don’t take Gene’s order he’ll eventually slither away.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Toni.
“Gene threatened to write some fear mongering story about the Cackleberry Club,” said Suzanne.
“That so?” said Toni. “No wonder he was trying to interview a couple of customers.”
“Rats. Did they talk to him?”
Toni snorted. “Are you kidding? They were too busy snarfing up omelets. I kind of hate to admit it, but Petra’s shrimp omelets have been a big hit”
“Glad to hear it,” said Suzanne. She glanced at the clock above a shelf cluttered with ceramic chickens. Big red-and-black roosters, little yellow chicks, and white chickens were all gathered together, watching over the place like a kind of Greek chorus of poultry. Except they never, ha-ha, made a peep.
Toni followed Suzanne’s eyes. “Getting toward lunch-time.”
“Yeah,” said Suzanne, digging in her apron pocket for the menu Petra had scrawled for her.
“You gonna put up the menu or you want me to?”
“I’ll do it,” said Suzanne.
“I’ll finish this sandwich, then go insult Gene,” said Toni.
“Bash him good,” said Suzanne.
Toni grinned. “He’ll feel like a piñata by the time I’m done with him.”
“Chicken a la king,” Suzanne murmured to herself. She listed that at the top of the blackboard menu, then added a grilled sandwich of smoked turkey, brie cheese, green apple, and watercress. She grabbed a piece of green chalk, drew a big soup bowl with steam rising off it, then scrawled creamy broccoli soup. At the bottom of the chalkboard she used orange chalk to draw a pumpkin and printed pumpkin roll cake. Suzanne wrote $2.99, then wiped it off with her hand and changed the price to $3.99. The difference between making a living and making a profit was a fine line indeed, she decided.
Suzanne stepped back, pleased. The Cackleberry Club wasn’t offering an extensive menu today. Then again, they were hosting the Quilt Trail Tea at two o’clock. So th
eir kitchen could only prep and serve so much in any given day. Petra did have her limits.
“Gene took off,” said Toni, whipping by with a tray that held two bowls of molten hot broccoli soup.
“Excellent,” said Suzanne. “Nice work.”
They did their tag-team thing then, taking orders, hustling them out to customers, fending off any probing questions about the two murders. By one o’clock, things had slowed down to a dull roar and Suzanne was able to dash into the Book Nook.
In honor of today’s Quilt Trail Tea, Suzanne laid out one of Petra’s basket pattern quilts on a round wooden table, then arranged a display of teapots, books about tea, and books about quilting. When she was finished, she stuffed her arrangement, then ran into her office and grabbed a white ceramic crock filled with stems of bright red bittersweet. She added that to the table along with a stack of Quilt Trail brochures. There, now everything looked cozy and cute, a real tribute to the Quilt Trail and a lovely autumn in Logan County.
Except, of course, for the fact that her Quilt Trail experience had been fraught with terror.
Hopefully, Doogie was keeping a lid on things and too many details weren’t being revealed. Then the Quilt Trail could go on as planned and hopefully draw hundreds of visitors who’d be charmed by both the landmarks and the picturesque drive.
Suzanne put a hand to her cheek, thinking. Maybe... check the Knitting Nest, too?
She rushed in, found two women sitting in chairs, working away. That was cool. In fact, it was the whole philosophy behind the Cackleberry Club. Create a warm, welcoming environment where women could spend an hour or two. Or three or four.
Suzanne bustled around the Knitting Nest and arranged baskets of knitting needles, tossed a few more skeins of organic wool yarn into a giant wooden bowl, stacked pre-cut quilt squares as well as the ubiquitous jelly rolls.
Okay, good, she decided, then dashed back out into the cafe.
Where she ran smack-dab into Joey Ewald, their skateboarding busboy. Who, today of all days, was dressed like a gangbanger!
“Joey,” said Suzanne, in an almost but not quite accusatory voice, “I almost didn’t recognize you!”
Joey, a skinny sixteen-year-old with a mop of dark hair and dark, almond shaped eyes, grinned fiendishly. He pointed an index finger and scanned down his baggy, outlandish outfit. “Cool, huh?” he asked.
“Oh my gosh,” breathed Suzanne, taking a real look at him. Joey’s pants were so big and baggy they sagged halfway down his hips, revealing not one but two expanses of colorful underwear. A belt cinched tightly around Joey’s hips kept his faded denim pants from slipping down around his Air Jordan-clad feet. His orange shirt was oversized as well and embroidered with the words LA. County Jail. His Chicago Bulls cap was turned backward.
Petra chose that moment to stroll out of the kitchen, bearing a large wicker basket. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Finally she managed to ask, “Is that your Halloween outfit?’
“Yo, Miz R, it’s my gang outfit,” Joey answered in a serious tone.
“There’s a gang in Kindred?” Suzanne asked with a fair amount of skepticism.
Joey shook his head, mournfully. “Naw, but the mall over in Jessup carries this stuff. With the money I earn today I’m gonna buy a gold chain to wear around my neck.” He looked far more pleased than if he’d said he was going to plunk it in a savings account.
“A necklace?” asked Petra.
“Necklaces are for girls,” said Joey. “You wouldn’t catch Fifty Cent wearing a necklace. Man goes for the bling.”
“Fifty Cent?” asked Petra, like she thought it might be a newly minted coin. A cousin to the Sacagaweas.
“Young man,” said Suzanne, “you’re not going to earn anything, Fifty Cent or fifty bucks, unless you change your clothes.”
“Oh man,” said Joey, disappointed. “Do I have to?”
“There’s a health code regulation,” said Suzanne, making it up as she went along, “that prohibits restaurant workers from showing their underwear.” She glanced at Toni, who was spreading white linen tablecloths across all the tables. Her pink bra peeped out from her tight-fitting red cowboy shirt. ‘Toni,” Suzanne hissed.
Toni glanced up.
Suzanne made rapid buttoning motions and Toni complied. Thank goodness, case closed. Blouse, too.
“So I gotta put on regular clothes?” Joey whined.
“Sorry,” said Suzanne. “But rules are rules. And health code regulations in particular are almost inviolable.” Although maybe not so much at Hoobly ‘s, she decided.
“Okay,” said a reluctant Joey. He swung his backpack off his shoulder and picked up his skateboard all in one motion.
“You run in back and change,” Suzanne instructed.
“Nice rags,” Toni called, as Joey scooted by her.
Suzanne shook her head. “Don’t encourage him.”
“Ah, he’s just a kid,” said Toni. “A couple of years from now he’ll be wearing golf shirts and khaki slacks, looking like a cookie-cutter used car salesman.” Toni got a wild gleam in her eyes. “Besides, remember how we used to dress in the eighties?”
“Don’t remind me.” Suzanne grimaced.
“How’d you used to dress?” asked Petra, interested now.
“I was the Cyndi Lauper of Kindred,” Toni bragged, “and our dear Suzanne here was a mini Madonna.”
“No!” said Petra.
“Complete with crinolines and ripped fishnet stockings!” Toni finished.
“Seriously?” asked Petra.
“Not really,” said Suzanne.
“Oh yeah,” said Toni. “With mall rat hair.” She glanced at Petra’s basket. “What’s in there, honey?” She reached out and flipped up the corner of a red gingham napkin. “Ah, scones.”
Petra nodded. “I baked an extra two dozen. I’m going to take them over to Reverend Yoder and the other men who are helping rebuild the Journey’s End Church.”
“It’s really coming along,” said Suzanne. “Might be ready for Christmas yet.”
“The bell tower went up last week, so that’s a positive sign,” said Petra.
Toni gave a shrug. “And Reverend Yoder’s been there every day, rain or shine, trying to help out even though he’s surely not much of a carpenter.”
“Just mentions them in his sermons,” said Petra, a sly smile on her face.
“Amen,” said Toni.
“Okay,” said Suzanne, glancing at her clipboard. “As soon as Petra gets back we need to do a final heads-up. Make sure we’re all on the same page.”
“How many reservations today?” asked Toni.
‘Twenty-two,” said Suzanne. “But I won’t be surprised if we get another dozen or so walk-ins.”
“You think?” asked Toni. “Because if word is out about last night...”
“Hopefully it’s not too out there,” said Suzanne.
“What if people stay away in droves?” -”I don’t think they’re going to perceive the Quilt Trail as being dangerous,” said Suzanne. “They’re going to believe that Deputy Halpern got himself into a situation he couldn’t handle.”
“No kidding.”
“But you’re right,” said Suzanne. “People will talk. Even Carmen Copeland was asking questions like crazy.”
“Carmen drives me crazy,” said Toni. “She’s a Type A—annoying.”
“I just hope she doesn’t go bugging Doogie,” said Suzanne. “Seems like he’s barely hanging on.”
“Doogie’s a tough guy,” said Toni, “he’ll pull it together.”
“It’s hard for him, though,” said Suzanne. “Doogie’s alone and probably doesn’t have a lot of close friends to lean on. No sounding board, nobody to bounce ideas off.”
“Like we do,” said Toni. “Even if we are a little off the chain.”
Suzanne nodded. “You can say that again.”
Chapter Fifteen
As if by magic, merry old England seemed to drop from th
e skies and land smack-dab in the middle of the Cackleberry Club. Or, at the very least, a charming little tea shop from a village in the Cotswolds.
Because an amazing transformation had taken place at the Cackleberry Club. White linen tablecloths now draped the normally battered tables. Red and gold chrysanthemums bobbed their shaggy heads from crystal vases that graced each table. Creamy white tapers flickered and reflected off polished silverware. The best china had been laid out and soft music—a nocturne by Chopin—played in the background.
“Fantastic,” said Suzanne, as she surveyed the room.
“It’s like a fairy godmother waved her magic wand,” agreed Toni. “Bippity-boppity-boo.”
“Perfect for a proper English tea,” chimed in Petra.
“Oh hey,” said Toni, glancing out the front window. “Here’s Arthur already.”
The front door flew open and Arthur Bunch, dressed in his trademark tweeds and bow tie, stepped inside. His scruffy brown leather messenger bag hung from one shoulder; he held another stack of Quilt Trail brochures in his hands.
“Aren’t you the optimistic one,” said Toni.
“Don’t be negative,” said Petra, scolding. She scurried toward Arthur and dragged him into the middle of what had become a showplace tearoom. “Pay no attention to Toni,” Petra instructed with a laugh. “She’s our problem child.”
“If only,” Suzanne murmured.
“We’re just delighted you can join us today,” Petra continued, hanging on Arthur’s arm. “Thrilled you agreed to give a little talk.”
Arthur Bunch smiled, blinked, and gazed about the tea shop. “Oh my goodness,” he rasped. “This is absolutely lovely! You ladies have brought about a spectacular transformation.”
“Watch it,” drawled Toni, “you make it sound like we were all running around in gingham dresses and smoking corncob pipes.”
“I didn’t mean ...” said Bunch, in a rush.
“Joke,” said Toni. “Joke. Take it easy and chill out, okay?”
Suzanne stepped in to address Bunch. “Maybe you’d like to hang out in the Book Nook until things get under way? Our guests should...” She glanced at her watch, a Timex that seemed to be running late. “Should be arriving within the next ten minutes or so.” She gave her stubborn watch a little tap.
