by Laura Childs
“That sounds fine,” said Bunch, eager to escape Toni and her sharp tongue. He dogged Suzanne’s footsteps into the Book Nook, dropped his messenger bag on the counter and said, “I checked my records about those donations you mentioned.”
“Hmm?” said Suzanne, turning back to him with two more quilting books she’d decided to add to her table display.
“You asked about Evelyn Novak making a donation to the historical society?” Bunch prompted.
“Right,” said Suzanne, focusing now.
“She didn’t,” said Bunch. “Not as far as I could see, anyway.”
“You looked through your records,” said Suzanne. “And found nothing for Novak.”
“I went back three years,” said Bunch. He looked at her expectantly. “You want me to go back further? I sure can, if you want me to. What was it you were looking for specifically?”
“Maybe ... paintings?” said Suzanne. She knew that’s what Novak had donated to the museum at Darlington College.
“Like I mentioned before,” said Bunch, “we don’t really accept anything that’s of European origin. Our mission as set forth is quite clearly focused—nineteenth- and twentieth-century Americana. And we prefer items directly related to the settlement of this particular area.” He gazed at her, saw she was still troubled. “But I could certainly search further back in our records ...”
“No,” said Suzanne, “it was just a wild hunch. Thanks anyway; you’ve done enough.”
“Glad to be of assistance,” said Bunch, as a chorus of eager female voices suddenly shrilled from the other room.
“And we’re off and running!” said Suzanne.
Lolly Herron’s grand entrance would have made Agatha Christie proud. Although she lived on a farm out on Highway 22, Lolly could have easily passed for an aging BBC star. Her sensible Miss Marple attire, classic tweed
skirt, carpetbag tote, and shoes with heels sturdy enough to construct a skyscraper on, screamed God Save the Queen! She’d wisely chosen to top off her outfit with a brown felt beret, held on with a jeweled hatpin that could probably double as a rapier.
“Am I too early?” Lolly breathed breathlessly, then saw that one table was already filled. “Oh perfect,” she said.
“I am loving that outfit!” Suzanne exclaimed.
“Got it all at Goodwill,” said Lolly. “Which accounts for the mingled aroma of Estee Lauder and mothballs.”
“Even the shoes?” asked Suzanne.
Lolly grinned. “Actually, these were mine to begin with.” A few laugh lines appeared on her pleasantly plump face.
“Well, you’re perfectly dressed for a proper English tea,” said Suzanne, leading her to a table. Then she headed back to the front door to welcome yet another arriving group of women.
These women had taken what Suzanne always thought of as the fifties matriarch approach. That is, demure suits, veiled hats, rhinestone cluster pins, and white gloves. And was one woman even wearing nylons with seams? Oh yes, she was!
As Suzanne continued to seat guests, Toni rushed to greet Minerva Bishop, also known as Mrs. Min. The tiny octogenarian was barely counter height, yet she was dressed fashionably in a brown suit with beige piping.
“Over here.” Suzanne waved as Toni lead the elderly lady to a chair that had been set up with a booster pillow. ‘There you go,” said Suzanne, pushing Mrs. Min in snug to the table.
“She’s so old she should be displayed in the historical society,” Toni whispered in Suzanne’s ear.
“Wait a few years,” Suzanne whispered back, “and that will be us!”
A tap on Suzanne’s shoulder caused her to turn, a broad smile still lighting her face. Her smile dimmed a bit when she found herself staring into Jane Buckley’s tear-filled eyes.
“I just heard about Wilbur,” Jane moaned, holding her arms across her stomach, as if she was in pain. “It’s so awful.”
Suzanne didn’t pull any punches.
“Doogie’s going to ask more questions, you know.”
Jane bristled. “Like what?”
“Like where you were last night?”
“Home,” said Jane, looking both wary and a little defensive.
“Home alone?” Suzanne asked.
Jane nodded, then she looked worried. “Oh no. He can’t think that I...”
“Doogie’s not thinking too clearly about anything right now,” Suzanne said as she led Jane to a table where two giggling tea regulars were seated. The duo was already chatting, laughing, and sipping tea and Suzanne figured they’d be the perfect tonic for Jane right now.
With every chair in the house occupied and an aromatherapy-like haze of Darjeeling, Assam, and Lap-sang souchong drifting over the cafe, Suzanne pushed her way into the kitchen. And stopped short when she saw what Toni and Petra had created.
“My goodness, those are gorgeous!” Suzanne exclaimed, gazing at the three-tiered silver serving stands that were brimming with goodies.
“You like?” asked Petra. She was just adding brown-and-gold-frosted petit fours to the top tier, squidging them next to the hazelnut scones.
“Incredible,” said Suzanne. Really, Petra had outdone herself once again. With the top tier holding the sugar goodies, the middle tier displayed a heroic assortment of tea sandwiches. There were chicken salad with toasted almonds, roast beef and cheddar cheese, and chopped pineapple with cream cheese. The bottom tier held more savories. Miniature mushroom quiches, toasted ham roll-ups, and tarragon and tuna on crostini.
“Plus we’ve got pear butter for the scones,” said Toni, “as well as Devonshire cream.”
“Good for a sugar buzz.” Suzanne grinned. She hesitated. “So, should we take them out? I think our ladies are ready to begin.”
“Wait, wait!” said Petra. She grabbed a small wooden tray filled with pink and purple edible flowers. “Can’t forget these!” She pinched the buds between her fingers and poked them in wherever there was room.
“As if our guests won’t have enough to eat already,” said Toni.
When the trays were delivered to the tables they proved to be an enormous success. With Suzanne, Toni, and Petra receiving applause, as well as whispered thank-yous, and more than a few giggles, kisses, and solemn words of thanks.
Just as Suzanne was carrying a pot of Formosan oolong to a table, a sensuous, husky voice called out, “Suzanne.”
Suzanne spun around and saw Paula Patterson from Radio WLGN calling to her. “Paula, great to see you.” Suzanne moved quickly over to Paula’s table.
“Suzanne,” said Paula, “would you do me a favor?”
Suzanne began to reach for the teapot nearest Paula. “Of course, what can I... ?”
“You, darling,” said Paula. “Would you consider filling in for me this Saturday morning?”
“Filling in for you,” Suzanne repeated. Then her eyes widened and she squawked, “You mean on air?”
“Just for an hour,” said Paula. She was a languid, longhaired blond who sounded as interesting as she looked. “My Friends and Neighbors show.”
“Wha... why would I want to do that?” asked Suzanne.
Paula grabbed her hand. “Because you’re so fun and spunky. And after reading all those tea columns you wrote for the Bugle I got supremely jealous. I thought to myself, I just have to invite Suzanne on to be a guest DJ.”
“I can’t be a DJ,” Suzanne sputtered.
Paula gave another throaty laugh. “Sure you can, darling.”
“For one thing, I don’t know the first thing about how to run a control board,” Suzanne protested. “There are buttons to push and headsets to wear and ...”
“That’s why we have a producer,” said Paula. “A lovely and very helpful man by the name of Wiley VonBank. He can teach you everything you need to know in about five minutes flat.”
Suzanne was far from convinced. “But what would I say? What would I talk about?”
“Just be yourself,” said Paula. ‘Talk about recipes, talk about tea. Take
call-ins from listeners. That’s what the show is really about anyway.” Paula gave Suzanne a sideways look. “Of course, there’d be plenty of opportunity to shamelessly plug the Cackleberry Club, too.”
That caught Suzanne’s attention. “Really? And the Quilt Trail?”
Paula nodded.
“And my big Halloween party this Sunday night?” Or am I pushing it?
Paula lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Sure, why not.”
“I suppose I could give it a shot.” Just like imported dark chocolate, it was too tempting for Suzanne to turn down.
“Perfect,” said Paula. “It’s settled then.”
Suzanne edged away, wondering how she’d ever be able to fill an entire hour with idle chitchat. On the other hand, she and Toni spent hours in idle chitchat. So maybe...
“Everyone!” said Petra, stepping to the center of the room and immediately commanding their guests’ attention. “I’d like to introduce Arthur Bunch, the director of the Logan County Historical Society.” There was polite applause, and then Petra continued. “Arthur has graciously agreed to tell us a little about the historical society, our exciting Quilt Trail event, and the society’s collection of over one hundred antique quilts.”
Then Arthur stepped to the center of the room, ducked his head, and began his talk.
“How long is he going to drone on, anyway?” Toni asked. She and Suzanne were sitting in the kitchen, picking away at a plate of leftover scones, slathering on altogether too many calories’ worth of Devonshire cream.
“Probably twenty minutes or so,” said Suzanne. “You’re not interested in quilts?”
Toni shrugged. “Only when they’re on my bed, keeping me all warm and snuggy.”
“Such an old-fashioned gal,” Suzanne chided. “Dedicated to the home arts.”
“Hey,” said Toni, “I’m into home arts. Don’t I got a picture above my bed? In my home?”
“A photo of George Clooney cut from the pages of In-Style magazine doesn’t count.”
Toni gave a slow wink. “It counts for me, cookie.”
When the applause sounded that marked the end of Arthur Bunch’s talk, Suzanne propelled herself back out to the cafe
“I just want to remind everyone,” she said, “we have Quilt Trail brochures in case you want to take the tour. Plus there are some gorgeous quilt squares for sale in the Knitting Nest and a nice selection of quilting books in the Book Nook.”
Suzanne quickly made the rounds of each table, handing out Quilt Trail brochures, then retired to the Book Nook where she met up with Bunch, who was beaming.
“I think my talk went exceedingly well,” said Bunch.
“Couldn’t have gone better,” Suzanne agreed. “Do you know ... how is the Quilt Trail going?”
“So far so good,” said Bunch, then grimaced. “As long as nobody dwells on last night’s tragic incident.”
“Have the sites reported a lot of visitors?” Suzanne asked, trying to skip over Bunch’s mention of last night. The less said the better.
“The sites that have reported in are quite pleased,” said Bunch. “Of course, the real test will be this weekend.”
“For sure,” said Suzanne, deciding this might be the perfect time to pass out a few of her specially designed recipe bookmarks. Except when she reached for them, the too-tall pile she had stacked on the counter suddenly collapsed and slid all over the place.
“Let me help,” said Bunch, scrambling to pick up the fluttering cards, his knees popping from the effort of bending down.
“Got too much going on,” Suzanne muttered.
“A busy time,” agreed Bunch. “The Quilt Trail, your tea today...”
“Halloween on Sunday,” said Suzanne.
“The upcoming election,” Bunch added.
Now it was Suzanne’s turn to make a face.
“I hate the idea that Mayor Mobley’s running unopposed,” she told Bunch. “And poor Sheriff Doogie has to contend with Bob Senander.” She paused, tamping her cards into a neat stack. “I worry that if Doogie doesn’t solve these two crimes, he might not get reelected.”
Arthur Bunch looked suddenly serious. “Come November second, we’re going to have a couple of hotly contested races on our hands. You realize, one group in town is scrambling to find another mayoral candidate.”
“Seriously?” said Suzanne. “Who have they got in mind?”
Bunch narrowed his eyes, thinking. “I’ve heard Gene Gandle’s name mentioned.”
“Say what?” said Suzanne, shaking her head. “The reporter at the Bugle! Whoa. Couldn’t he simply slant the media in his favor?”
“Maybe,” said Bunch. “You know, I’ve been asked to be one of the election judges this year, so I’m watching this whole thing fairly closely. Judges are tasked with making sure everything’s fair and square, that nobody gets into the
voting booths to upset things, that everyone gets a chance to vote on election day, and that ballots are handled properly.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Suzanne, thinking that Bunch would probably be diligent to a fault. Then she said, “So, are voting booths and ballots and things usually handled properly?”
Bunch gave a wry grin. “That’s what I’m about to find out.”
But Suzanne was only half listening to his answer. Because she was suddenly picturing the blue key card that Doogie had found in her backyard. The one he’d told her probably belonged to the courthouse.
Could the key card somehow be related to the election? After all, the voting booths are stored in city hall.
It was an intriguing thought. And so Suzanne asked herself the next logical question.
Could someone have snuck in to tamper with the voting machines? And then something went wrong?
Maybe it wasn’t possible to rig the machine so Mobley would come up as winner. So then ... this person, the killer, presumably, had resorted to murder?
And could this someone be Allan Sharp—or even Mobley himself?
Chapter Sixteen
“How are you guys doing tonight?” Suzanne asked.
Mocha Gent lifted his head and peered over the gate of his box stall. Next door to him, his neighbor Grommet the mule did the same thing. An even bigger guy, but awfully sweet natured.
“Who wants to go for a ride?” she asked.
Grommet swished his tail and gave a rough stomp. Then he turned his broad gray back on Suzanne and went back to sifting through tasty tendrils of alfalfa in his hayrack. Riding? A saddle on his back? Excuse me?
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” said Suzanne. She stood on her tiptoes to put Mocha’s bridle on, then led him out of his stall. She adjusted the leather strap behind his ears, then slid her hand down the full length of the horse’s neck. Slipping a red-and-black-striped saddle blanket on his wide back, Suzanne followed up with a well-worn mahogany brown saddle that seemed to gleam against his chestnut coat. The aged leather squeaked appealingly as Suzanne and Mocha played their little game of cinch-up. She pulling the cinch tight, while he rapidly sucked in air, trying to expand his stomach. Finally, when a happy state of detente had been achieved, Suzanne fastened the cinch and led him outside.
She stood for a few moments in the farmyard, gazing at the white clapboard farmhouse where the Ducovnys lived. Light spilled from its windows making it look cozy and inviting, a perfect little rural Kodak moment. Then Suzanne lifted her gaze to the blue black night sky where a lopsided white moon glowed on the horizon, looking like a ripe honeydew melon that was missing a slice. By Halloween that moon would be full. The hunter’s moon. A portent of winter and freezing temps.
Placing her left foot in the stirrup, Suzanne sprang onto the horse’s back and settled in comfortably. Mocha was a big sweetheart of a beast who loved chugging along a trail or cantering through an open field. Tonight there was just enough time for a quick ride around the perimeter of Suzanne’s fields. After all, she still had places to go, people to see.
Giving a nudge
with her heels and a quick flick of the reins, Suzanne urged Mocha into a fast trot. As they bounced along, Suzanne surveyed the farmland she owned. It had been an investment that Walter had proposed to her several years ago. When she’d put up a sort of pro forma resistance to the idea, worrying about purchase price, he’d teased her with the old adage, ‘They’re not making any more land that I know of.”
Now she was happy she owned it. Not just because the land had held its value, but because it gave her a genuine sense of pleasure, of being connected to the earth. She enjoyed looking over the undulating fields of soybeans, alfalfa, and corn as they sprouted, grew, and flourished, even if she wasn’t the one doing the actual farming.
Even standing in the kitchen of the Cackleberry Club this morning, she had gazed out the back window and
smiled at what was now an ocean of pale wheat and gold, stretching as far as the eye could see.
As Mocha pranced toward the stand of oak, sumac, cedars, and buckthorn that separated the farm fields from the backyard of the Cackleberry Club, an owl let loose his low, mournful hoot.
The sound momentarily startled Suzanne, then she decided it might be a perfect sound effect for their Halloween party this Sunday night. All the decorations were set, but she still needed something to tease the guests as they picked their way through the corn maze. Something a little more low-key and sophisticated than the cassette tape of bloodcurdling screams Torn had offered.
There was, of course, a lot more to be done for the upcoming party. Like putting up a giant tent, getting the fire pits in place, and pinning down a few games. Thankfully, she had her costume designed, as well as a neat little one-act play that should come as a terrific surprise to everyone!
As they clopped back toward the barn, in horsey cool down mode, Suzanne glanced at her watch again. She had just enough time to brush Mocha, give him a fortifying cup of oats, then run home and take a quick shower.
