by Laura Childs
After finishing the Twenty-third Psalm, Reverend Strait went on to deliver a heartfelt speech about Peebler’s kindness and his dedication to the community. After touching on Peebler’s civic pride and love of golf, Reverend Strait then invited others to come up and share their thoughts and recollections.
As community members talked about Peebler in glowing terms, Suzanne noted that no one mentioned Peebler’s attraction to strippers or his frequent visits to Hoobly’s. Like most tributes to the dead, previous sins were rarely mentioned.
A final blessing was delivered, then the gentle strains of Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” rolled out from the organ, a cue that the service had concluded.
The casket rolled back down the aisle on clacking wheels, the six pallbearers all looking decidedly serious. Suzanne and Toni waited until the church was practically empty, then stood up and edged toward the aisle.
“You okay?” Suzanne asked.
“Oh yeah,” said Toni. “At least the service didn’t last an eternity, like some do.”
“Interesting choice of words,” Suzanne observed. They walked slowly down the aisle and out into a cool, cloudy
day where mourners milled about on the sidewalk, talking with each other in a low buzz.
“Too bad Petra had to hold down the fort,” said Toni. “She would have liked this, the music and all. And wasn’t it lucky that Kit was able to pinch-hit for us?”
“Just as long as Kit doesn’t ask us to fill in for her,” said Suzanne, as they pushed their way through the crowd.
Toni stared at Suzanne for a long moment, then a wry smile lit her face. “That would be something. Us working the stage at Hoobly’s!”
“Kit’s a good kid,” said Suzanne. “I just hope she starts to see the upside of working a regular day job and changes her mind about dancing.” They’d reached her car and Suzanne walked around to the street side, ready to climb in.
“It’s nice you call it dancing,” observed Toni, “instead of stripping. You’re always so ladylike and ...” Her words were chopped off as a rattling pickup truck suddenly careened out of nowhere!
“Suzanne! Watch out!” Toni screamed, as the beater bore down upon her, almost clipping the back end of Suzanne’s Taurus.
Then Mike O’Dell jumped from his truck, eyes blazing and his face twitchy with anger. “You crazy witch!” he screamed at Suzanne. “You sicced the sheriff on me!”
Shocked beyond belief, Suzanne took a step backward just as a brave Toni barreled around the front of the car and flung herself at O’Dell. “What are you talking about?” Toni demanded.
O’Dell ignored Toni completely. She was nothing more than a buzzing gnat to him as he continued his tirade at Suzanne. “You think just because a man has a crossbow that makes him a killer!”
Suzanne stepped out from behind Toni. “This is neither the time nor the...”
But Mike O’Dell was just getting started. “And then you think I’d go and kill a deputy! Are you crazy!” Tiny bits of spittle flew from his mouth like a rabid dog. “You take me for some kind of fool?”
Suzanne threw back her shoulders and held up a hand. “Now just back off, mister!” she told him, in a stern voice.
“I oughta sue you for slander!” O’Dell shrilled. “For conjuring up a crazy pack of lies!” He turned on Toni now. “And you! Spreading rumors and lies about Sasha. You’re just jealous! Jealous your own husband would rather watch an exotic dancer than spend an evening with you!”
“Enough!” Suzanne yelled. A small crowd of people had begun to gather on the sidewalk, transfixed by the shouting match that was taking place.
Suddenly Sheriff Doogie’s voice echoed from across the street. “Hey!” he shouted, his voice sounding like a bullhorn. “O’Dell! What the Sam Hill are you up to?” Then Doogie came steamrolling across the street, his face flushed pink and his anger palpable as he planted himself directly in front of Mike O’Dell. He was so close, Suzanne noted, that the wide brim of Doogie’s Smokey Bear hat nearly poked O’Dell in the eye.
“What’s your beef?” Doogie asked, putting hands on both hips.
Mike O’Dell didn’t back down and he didn’t bat an eye. “And you, Sheriff! I sure don’t appreciate you poking around my farm or asking snide questions all over town, neither. Because I didn’t do anything!”
“You’re disturbing the peace right now,” said Doogie, sounding amazingly calm. “Harassing two citizens.”
“I got a right to say my piece,” snarled O’Dell.
“Not right now you don’t,” Doogie warned. “Not in front of a church when a man’s being buried.”
“You gonna arrest me?” O’Dell huffed.
That did it for Doogie. He pulled himself to his full height, hitched up his utility belt, and thundered, “This is your final warning, O’Dell! One more uncivil word, grunt, or snort and I’ll run you in!”
Hate blazed in O’Dell’s eyes, but he kept his lips pressed firmly together. He shot one final, withering, dagger-filled glance at Suzanne, then careened away and climbed back into his clunker. There was a high-pitched scream as his engine revved, then O’Dell sped away in a cloud of oil.
“That went well,” said Suzanne, half gagging from the exhaust fumes O’Dell’s car had spit out. “We all kept calm and resolved our issues.”
“Suzanne.” Doogie waved a warning forefinger in front of her face. “Don’t start with the sarcasm.” Then he turned and clumped away.
“Zowie,” said Toni, “I wish I could get two men to fight over me like that.”
“Yeah,” said Suzanne, feeling worn out from all the tension, “it’s a rare treat.”
“Seriously,” said Toni, “are you okay?”
“No harm done, but it looks like we attracted quite an audience.”
“Aw,” said Toni, glancing back at the hastily dispersing crowd, “they’re pretty much wandering off now.”
But Suzanne did notice Allan Sharp watching them from a distance, a slight smile pasted on his oily face.
Which made her wonder. Was Sharp somehow involved in these two murders? Had he been delighted by her confrontation with Mike O’Dell? Had he viewed it as a possible misdirection that would shift the investigation away from him? And how could she go about prying information— any information—from Allan Sharp?
“Toni,” said Suzanne. “I have to make a quick stop. Can you get a ride to the Cackleberry Club?”
“Sure,” said Toni. “No problem.”
Suzanne sped down Main Street, practically running a red light in the process. She sat at the light, tapping her fingers against the wheel, impatient to reach city hall. Before she headed for the Cackleberry Club to help with the lunch crowd and this afternoon’s Mystery Tea, she wanted to put her plan into action.
Easing her way into a parking spot outside the large sandstone building, Suzanne bolted up the steps to city hall. Her patent leather heels clicked and clacked at they hit the marble steps, then she was striding purposefully down a cavernous hallway. She passed the DMV office and License Bureau. Then she skidded past Parks and Recreation and the City Planner’s office, ending up at the reception area, which for some odd reason, was located at the far end of the building.
An old-fashioned, sixteen-foot-wide wooden counter separated inquisitive visitors, also known as potentially angry citizens, from city workers. An original artifact to the old building, the counter would probably one day end up in Arthur Bunch’s collection. For now, it merely served as a barrier that helped contain the mounting stacks of paperwork that sat on every employee’s desk. The never-ending pieces of paper crept out of dozens of wooden filing cabinets and tall stacks of paper rested between cramped desks and copier machines. Suzanne wondered where all the computers were, then spotted one, buried beneath mounds of paper.
She cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
Though there were six desks, only one clerk was working behind the counter. The woman turned, gave a perfunctory smile, and came up
to greet her. “Help you?” she said, grabbing for a bottle of Purell on the counter and depressing the pump to give herself a good squirt. She looked wary, as if Suzanne might be there to protest one of the inevitable property tax hikes.
Suzanne reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a key card, the one she’d painstakingly painted blue last night. She flashed it quickly, then closed her hand around it.
“I understand someone might have lost a key card?” she said, trying to sound casual, though her heart was pumping a few beats faster.
“I’m not sure,” the woman said, caution shading her voice, as she continued to rub her hands together.
Like a magician once again revealing an important card, Suzanne tapped the key card against the battered wooden counter. “Has one been reported missing? Because I found this, and I’m pretty sure it’s from here.”
The woman shrugged. “Maybe. I might have heard something about it.”
“Do you know who could have lost it?” Suzanne asked.
The woman glanced about furtively. “I hate to get anyone in trouble.”
“Listen,” said Suzanne, trying to look sincere, “I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble, I’m just trying to be a good citizen.”
The clerk reached for the key card. “Give it to me and I’ll for sure ask around.”
Suzanne whisked the key card back into her pocket. “That’s okay, I don’t mind hanging on to it. Just call me, okay? If one’s reported missing?”
The clerk looked slightly suspicious as she grabbed a pen and paper. “And your name is ... ?”
“I’m Suzanne. Suzanne at the Cackleberry Club.”
Chapter Eighteen
The chalkboard said it all, “Basic breakfast today—daily specials cancelled because of funeral. God bless.”
No further explanation was needed. Pretty much everyone in town knew that Chuck Peebler had been buried this morning. They were also hip to the fact that he’d been murdered in the Cackleberry Club’s backyard. And if all those juicy details had somehow eluded them, the Bugle’s front page headline and inside sidebar stories explained it all in exaggerated detail.
“Doggone that Gene,” said Suzanne. Toni had shoved the newspaper into her hands the minute she’d walked in the back door and now she was munching a piece of whole wheat toast while fuming and muttering over the story.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” Petra asked hopefully. She was standing at her prep table, flouring a big ball of dough and kneading it with her capable hands. Toni was running in and out of the cafe, delivering the last of the breakfasts and picking up dirty dishes.
“Excuse me,” said Suzanne, “but did you see this headline?” She grappled with the pages and held them up.” ‘The Butchery Behind the Bake Shop: An Expose of Murder in a Small Town.’”
“Oh dear,” said Petra, “that does sound awful.”
“Smacks of a pulp fiction title,” Suzanne snorted. “Gene must be going for the Pulitzer.”
“Or a movie deal,” said Toni, popping into the kitchen again. “I can’t believe Laura Benchley would let him sensationalize the two murders like that.”
“Oh,” said Petra. “Laura’s out of town this week.”
“Which means Gene’s in charge,” said Suzanne. “Lucky us this was the one week he got to play both muckraker and editor.”
“I don’t know,” said Toni, “I thought Gene made it all sound pretty dang exciting.”
Suzanne shook her head. “Gene made it sound like we’re the murder capital of the world.”
“On the bright side, if there is a bright side,” said Petra, “people are still flocking here like crazy. We were pretty much full for breakfast.”
Suzanne glanced up. “How did that go? I mean, with Kit helping out?”
“Good,” said Petra, giving her dough a gentle punch. “A few folks were disappointed we didn’t offer our usual Foggy Morning Soufflé, but in the end they settled for scrambled eggs and toast.”
“And Kit?” Suzanne asked. Rolling the paper up, she set it down with a smack, then grabbed a blue-and-white-pinstripe apron and tied it around her waist.
“She did great,” said Petra, as she maneuvered her rolling pin across her dough, rolling it out to about a one-inch thickness. “That girl has a real talent for dealing with people.”
“You can say that again.” Toni smirked.
“Be nice,” cautioned Suzanne. “And how was she dressed?” Suzanne sincerely hoped Kit hadn’t come bouncing in wearing Daisy Dukes and a halter top.
“Very appropriately,” said Petra. “Still, that girl could walk around in a plus-size burka and men would swoon.” She took a circular cookie cutter and began cutting circles in her dough.
“Then let’s just hope Kit wants to keep helping out here,” said Suzanne.
“You think we’re a good influence on her?” Toni asked.
“Well, you ‘re more like Lady Gaga than Emily Post.” Suzanne laughed. “But Petra and I... hey, we’re practically model citizens.”
“I could tell a tale or two about you, Suzanne,” said Toni, crinkling her eyes.
“Don’t you dare,” Suzanne murmured.
Toni looked impish now. “About this past Tuesday night?”
“What happened Tuesday night?” asked Petra.
“Nothing!” said Suzanne.
Toni grinned. “Bet you’re hoping it’ll happen again real soon.” She snickered, then grabbed a rag and dashed out to wipe tables.
“Hope what... ?” began Petra.
“Nothing,” said Suzanne. “Nada, nix, nothing. As they say in The Wizard of Oz, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”
“Ah,” said Petra, peering at her closely now. “Is this about you and the good doctor... ?”
But Suzanne had already escaped into the cafe.
“Don’t go spilling the beans, okay?” Suzanne asked Toni. Toni was arranging slices of pie in the glass case, Suzanne
was putting a final polish on the silverware in anticipation of lunch.
“I didn’t know it was so hush-hush,” said Toni, still in a playful mood.
“Please,” said Suzanne. “I don’t want this to get all over town.”
Toni made a zipping motion across her mourn. “Mum’s the word, girlfriend. Your sordid little secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you,” said Suzanne, as the tinkle of the entry-way bell interrupted their conversation.
“Hey,” said Toni, a wide smile spreading across her face. “It’s the Beck sisters.”
Only Donna and Nadine Beck weren’t really sisters at all. They were sisters-in-law who’d become best friends once they’d both divorced their respective philandering husbands some twenty years ago. Now well into their sixties, they supplemented their Social Security checks by supplying the Cackleberry Club with wonderful homemade foods.
“Whatcha got?” Suzanne asked, as Donna hefted a large, wicker picnic basket onto a table.
“Hope it’s pickles,” said Toni, peering in.
“Garlic dill pickles,” said Donna, who was small, silver-haired, and compact.
“And are they ever garlicky!” exclaimed Nadine, who was small, silver-haired, and pleasingly plump. “You should get a whiff of our kitchen. Even the cat’s giving it a wide berth.”
“Perfect,” said Suzanne. For some reason, oddball goods were always the most popular items. Whip up a batch of cranberry-pear jam and it disappeared from the shelves instantly. Same thing with sprouted wheat bread and potato rolls. So garlic pickles? Sure to please.
“And I brought pies,” said Nadine. “Two apple pies, one pumpkin, and another I call autumn harvest.”
“Which is?” asked Toni.
Nadine dug in her basket and pulled out the pie. “A mixture of apples, cranberries, pears, and brown sugar.”
“Sounds heavenly,” said Suzanne, as she led the ladies toward her sputtering, vibrating, maybe-on-its-last-legs cooler.
Petra strolled out of the k
itchen, just as the first of the luncheon crowd was arriving. “Got some specials for you,” she told Suzanne.
Suzanne grabbed a piece of chalk and said, “Go.”
“Curried egg salad sandwich,” said Petra. “Squash blossom soup and a croque madame.”
Suzanne printed quickly. “And for dessert?”
“Strawberry rhubarb crumble, chocolate cake with coconut sauce, and seven-layer bars.”
“Be still my heart,” said Suzanne, who considered herself your basic connoisseur of seven-layer bars.
Petra hesitated for a moment, then said, “Toni told me about your little to-do with Mike O’Dell after the funeral.”
“The guy went totally postal,” said Suzanne. “Good thing Doogie came along when he did.”
“You’ve got to be more careful, Suzanne,” said Petra. “More and more people are figuring out that you’re running your own investigation.”
“I am careful,” said Suzanne. “Really.” Then, when Petra flashed a questioning glance, she amended her words to, “I’ll try to be more careful.”
“That really was a pretty nasty article Gene Gandle wrote. If you ask me, Gene’s adding fuel to the fire.”
“Maybe his article will shake something loose,” Suzanne suggested, ever the optimist.
Petra considered that for a moment, then said, “Maybe it’ll just make the killer angrier.”
“Dale,” said Suzanne. Dale Huffington slid onto a stool at the counter. He was a big behemoth of a man, a local guy who worked at the Jasper Creek Prison handling security.
“You serving lunch yet, Suzanne?” Dale asked.
Suzanne nodded. “We sure are. What can I get you?” She poured out a cup of coffee as Dale studied the chalkboard.
“You serving frog legs?” Dale asked, beetling his brow.
“Not that I can recall,” said Suzanne.
“What’s that on the board then?” Dale asked. He shifted around, his bulk spilling over his straining belt. “Croque madame?”
“Croque madame is basically a fancy grilled cheese sandwich with a fried egg on top,” Suzanne explained.
