Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  “Not anymore he’s not,” said Doogie, with a slight air of superiority. “Earl moved back to Kindred a couple of months ago. He’s selling insurance for Universal Allied Home and Life.”

  “Okay,” said Suzanne, “that’s an interesting little factoid. But why would you consider Earl a suspect? What made him pop up on your radar screen?”

  Doogie looked pleased at Suzanne’s question as he paused to scratch his ample stomach. “Because I have it on good authority that Ozzie and Earl were seen arguing in a bar this past Friday night.”

  Petra came steamrolling through the swinging door and plunked down sausages, pancakes, and a caramel roll in front of Doogie. “Which bar?” she asked.

  “Schmitt’s,” said Doogie.

  “That’s no big deal,” chimed in Toni, obviously eager to pooh-pooh Doogie’s theory. “Everybody gets caught up in some kind of wacky argument when they hit a few bars.” She went on to explain. “You have yourself a couple tequila sours, wolf down a few handfuls of stale popcorn, maybe buy a basket of pull tabs . . . next thing you know, you’re snarling over some stupid little thing...” She grimaced, then her gaze slid to Suzanne and Petra, who looked slightly aghast. “At least that’s what happens to me and Junior,” Toni added in a small voice.

  Junior was Junior Garrett, Toni’s bad-boy estranged husband. He was a few years younger than Toni, a vo-tech dropout, self-proclaimed womanizer, and worked as a grinder and metal finisher over at Shelby’s Body Shop. Toni’s impromptu Vegas wedding to Junior had been a hideous mistake and now Toni was wrestling with the notion of getting out of it. Especially since Junior had a habit of disappearing with the local VFW’s floozy bartender.

  “It’s doubtful,” said Suzanne, “but I suppose Earl could be a long-shot possibility in this. But certainly not Missy, no way is Missy involved.”

  Toni looked thoughtful. “Did it ever occur to you guys that maybe Ozzie’s partner bumped him off?”

  Doogie lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “Maybe. I’m gonna talk to Draper later this morning.” Doogie dug into his pancakes, took a couple of appreciative bites, then said, “It’s a funny thing. Ozzie left a message on my answering machine yesterday. I was kind of working my way over to his place when Petra waylaid me in the park and asked me to check on Suzanne.”

  “It’s a good thing you did,” said Petra.

  “Why do you think Ozzie called you yesterday?” asked Suzanne, her radar suddenly pinging. “Do you think that call was somehow connected to his murder? That he felt threatened by someone?”

  “Don’t know,” said Doogie, as he continued to snarf his breakfast at an increasingly rapid pace.

  “Maybe Earl Stensrud sold Ozzie an insurance policy and Ozzie wasn’t happy,” said Toni. “Maybe Ozzie tried to get his money back and Earl said no way.”

  “I ain’t ruling anybody out at this point,” said Doogie.

  Toni rolled her eyes in a gesture of exasperation. “Then what about Suzanne? She was there. Is she a suspect, too?”

  Doogie shifted his focus to Suzanne, who had grabbed a couple of tins of tea and was trying to decide between brewing a pot of jasmine or Earl Grey.

  “Probably not,” was Doogie’s response. “She was awful loopy from that chloroform.”

  “Well, thank you, Dr. Doogie, for your expert diagnosis,” said Suzanne. “And by the way, did you question that kid who was there yesterday? Ozzie’s assistant?”

  “Bo Becker,” filled in Doogie.

  “Holy buckets,” exclaimed Toni, “I know that guy. Junior drove in an amateur stock car race against Bo Becker this past summer. Over at Speedway Park.”

  “Didn’t I hear somewhere that Bo Becker was bad news?” asked Petra. “Wasn’t he arrested for stealing cars?”

  “Ayup,” burped Doogie. “Did time in juvie hall.”

  ‘Then Becker’s your guy,” said Toni, pouncing like a hungry duck on a fat grasshopper. “Has to be.”

  ‘Talk like that leads to rumors,” muttered Doogie. “And around Kindred, rumors spread like wildfire.”

  “Oh, stuff it,” Toni told him.

  Doogie squeezed his eyes shut and let loose an ear-splitting sneeze. ‘“Scuse me,” he said, pulling out a hanky. “Must be pollen or dust in here.” He wiped at his nose, glanced up at one of the shelves. “Probably dust. You got so darned many chickens up there.”

  “I’ll have you know those are dusted religiously,” said Toni, slightly indignant.

  “Let’s get back to the murder,” said Suzanne. “What about the drugs? Did you determine if any drugs were missing?”

  ‘Too soon to tell,” Doogie responded. “Draper’s gotta go through the inventory list and that’s in some computer file.”

  “And the sticky tape remnants and stuff,” said Suzanne. “The crime scene evidence. What have you found out about that?”

  “Still at the state lab. Gonna take a while,” said Doogie.

  “Well, let me know, will you?” asked Suzanne.

  “Maybe,” said Sheriff Doogie, using the last chunk of his caramel roll to sop up the puddle of syrup on his plate, “as long as I get a little quid pro quo.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Toni. Her eyes shifted to Suzanne, then Petra. “What’s he talking about?”

  “I’d like you to keep your eyes and ears open, okay?” Doogie asked the three women. “I know you gals overhear all sorts of loose talk when folks sit down to eat.”

  “Addressing us as ladies is the correct and more polite term,” said Petra. “Not gals. It serves no purpose to speak in tired, old, male chauvinisms.”

  “Whatever,” muttered Doogie. He stood languidly, hitched his belt, and headed for the door. As was typical of Doogie, he never paid his bill because he never asked for a bill.

  “Hey, Doogie-doo,” Toni called after him, “don’t let the screen door slap that wide load of yours on the way out.” When Doogie turned his head and threw Toni a sour look, she added, “On the other hand, how could it not?”

  Chapter five

  “Can you believe it?” exclaimed Suzanne. “Doogie actually sees Missy as a suspect!” She was standing in the kitchen with Petra, helping frost cupcakes. Carrot cake with cream cheese icing.

  “Doogie tried to project an air of confidence,” said Petra, “like he was seriously large and in charge. But you could tell he was really in turmoil. I guess a county sheriff doesn’t exactly have the experience and wherewithal that a big-city homicide detective might have.”

  “You have to admit,” said Suzanne, “that Doogie does a dang fine job of rousting young lovers from Bluff Creek Park and shagging the occasional coyote that wanders into town. But for him to think Missy was involved . . . that’s a horrible accusation. I can’t quite get past such idiotic thinking!”

  “Try to,” advised Petra. “Otherwise it will just drive you nuts.”

  “Who’s nuts?” asked Toni, pushing her way through the swinging door, cradling a plastic tub of dirty dishes on her hip.

  “Suzanne’s obsessing because Doogie said he was looking hard at Missy,” explained Petra. “But, in the end, any suspicion he has won’t amount to a hill of beans.”

  Still, Suzanne looked worried. “But if Missy had broken up with Ozzie and was starting to see Earl again ...” she began.

  “Had she?” asked Toni. “Because that’s not the impression you gave Doogie.”

  “I know that,” said Suzanne. “I laughed at his suggestion of Missy being a suspect because . . .” She stopped suddenly.

  “Because of what?” Petra asked quietly.

  “I guess I was trying to protect my friend,” said Suzanne.

  “You were right to do so,” said Toni, setting down her dishes and giving Suzanne a pat on the arm. In fact, we all need to stand together on this.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Petra, licking a smear of frosting from the back of her hand. “Time for an affirmation?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” said Suzanne.

  Whenev
er the ladies of the Cackleberry Club came across a quote, a saying, or a Bible verse they liked, they scribbled it on a piece of paper and tossed it into a Red Wing crock. Now they were in the habit of drawing a slip each day from their so-called affirmation jar and sharing it with each other.

  Petra held out the crock to Toni. “You first.”

  Toni reached in, grabbed a pink Post-it note, and read, “Life’s problems wouldn’t be called hurdles if there wasn’t a way to get over them.”

  “See?” said Petra, smiling at Suzanne. “Good one, huh?”

  Suzanne smiled back. “You’re right. Now you choose.”

  Petra grabbed a slip of paper, studied it, then read it. “The future belongs to those who live intensely in the present.” She nodded to herself and murmured, “I sure try to live in the present.”

  Toni gripped Petra’s arm, knowing she was thinking of Donny. “You do, dear,” said Toni.

  Petra blinked rapidly, then smiled at Suzanne. “Now you.”

  Suzanne grabbed a piece of paper and read it out loud. “Do or do not. There is no try.”

  “Sounds familiar,” said Toni. “Is that attributed to anyone in particular? Maybe one of those really smart guys like Kierkegaard or Shakespeare?”

  Suzanne held up the slip for Toni to see. “Yoda.”

  “From Star Wars!” shrieked Petra. “I love it!” And then she was bustling about the kitchen, washing her hands, ready to whip up a batch of corn muffins.

  “We better hustle our buns and get today’s luncheon offerings up on the blackboard,” said Toni.

  “Let’s do it,” said Suzanne, leading the way out to the cafe.

  But there were more customers to be seated, coffee cups to be filled, and dishes to be cleared, so Suzanne ended up tackling the chalkboard herself. Using pink and orange chalk, she listed the four luncheon specials the Cackleberry Club was offering today: grilled chicken with avocado on sprouted wheat bread, asian chicken wrap, pita bread vegetarian pizza, and chicken citrus salad. Then Suzanne used a piece of yellow chalk to make a cartoon drawing of a wedge of pie and printed under it, Frozen Lemonade Pie. $2.95 a slice.

  Suzanne didn’t need to list the rest of their goodies, because most customers knew there was always a fresh assortment of cookies, bars, muffins, and scones. In fact, most were on display in the circular glass pastry case that sat atop the counter.

  Because there was still a good thirty minutes before the luncheon crowd began easing their way in, Suzanne went over to the sputtering old cooler in the corner and checked the shelves. On display were homemade banana and cranberry breads, jars of fat dill pickles, canned jellies and jams, cheeses, and boxes of string beans. These were items that local producers brought in to the Cackleberry Club to sell. It was really a win-win situation for everyone. Suzanne took a small percentage of retail sales and the growers and producers got the lion’s share. She knew one woman who had helped finance her daughter’s junior college education on what she’d made from selling her potato rolls and banana bread.

  But as Suzanne’s eyes scanned the shelves, she noticed they were very low on cheese. Ordinarily, they stocked several dozen wheels of organic blue cheese and cheddar cheese from Mike Mullen’s Cloverdale Farm. He had a herd of doe-eyed Guernseys that were the sweetest, friendliest cows Suzanne had ever encountered. Whatever it was, the lack of antibiotics and hormones or the tender grass and organic grain they fed on, the milk from the Cloverdale cows yielded cheeses that were creamy and rich beyond belief. And very popular with customers, as the almost-empty shelf would attest to.

  Suzanne made a mental note to call Mike and tell him they were perilously low on cheese, then she peeked into the Book Nook to check on things. This was book club night and Toni was leading a discussion on so-called chick lit books. For some reason Suzanne had yet to fathom, every one of those books seemed to have a hot pink cover with bouncy, funky type. Go figure.

  Of course, the book club would also break halfway through the evening for a glass of wine. After quizzing Suzanne for suggestions, Toni had opted for a lovely, mellow Italian Pinot Grigio. A fine choice that would no doubt help the group segue from discussing sarcastic chick lit to bodice-busting romance novels.

  Romance novels. Doggone it.

  Scurrying across the well-worn Aubusson carpet to the romance section, Suzanne carefully checked the shelves. Carmen Copeland, their local romance author, was coming in Wednesday afternoon for a book signing and she wanted to be stocked and ready.

  Well, okay. Phew.

  They had at least twenty-five copies of Carmen’s new book, Ramona’s Rhapsody, on the shelf, along with at least two copies of each book in Carmen’s backlist. So that ought to do it.

  Carmen was one of a handful of authors who had jumped from mid-list mediocrity to the top of her genre. In leapfrogging thousands of other authors, Carmen had become rich, haughty, and imperious, not necessarily in that order. But Carmen’s snippy attitude wasn’t Suzanne’s problem at the moment. Right now she was concerned about Missy Langston and was wondering how in heck she could get in touch with her.

  Maybe drive over to her house after lunch? Stop by the boutique? Missy was probably there, unpacking boxes, frantically steaming garments and arranging them on racks.

  Grabbing a couple of empty coffee mugs that had been left on the Book Nook’s small counter, Suzanne scooted through the cafe and headed into the kitchen.

  When Petra saw Suzanne burst through the door, she said, “Do you realize what a ferociously busy week this is going to be?”

  Suzanne gave a knowing nod. She knew exactly what they had on the docket.

  “We’ve got the Silver Leaf Tea Club coming in tomorrow afternoon,” said Petra, ticking off the events on her fingers, “then the Knit-In for Charity on Thursday, and our Take the Cake Show on Saturday.”

  “I know,” said Suzanne. “It’s a lot.”

  “More than a full week,” muttered Petra, as she dipped her frosting knife into a bowl of creamy vanilla frosting.

  “That cake’s for Saturday?” asked Suzanne. Petra was frosting a three-layer chocolate cake and had sketched out a Take the Cake logo and design. Her plan was to add mini fondant cakes and blue ribbons as decoration.

  “It is in a way,” said Petra. “Jenny Probst offered to display it in the front window of the bakery. Advertising made delicious.”

  Toni came slaloming in with a stack of clean dessert plates and slammed them down on the wooden butcher block table. “What’s wrong?” she asked, at seeing Suzanne and Petra with such serious faces.

  “We were just talking about how much we’ve got scheduled this week,” said Petra. “What were we thinking?” She picked up a spatula and twirled it in the air. “We’re going to run ourselves ragged!”

  “We just got overenthusiastic,” said Toni, matter-of-factly. “In case you two hadn’t noticed, a lot of that goes on here. Somebody says something about knitting or cake decorating and the energy level ratchets up about a zillion degrees and suddenly we have a great big honkin’ event on our hands!”

  “You think we scheduled too much?” asked Petra. “In too short a time frame?” Now she and Toni both cast sideways glances at Suzanne.

  “Of course we did,” said Suzanne. “But I don’t think we’d want it any other way. All our events are great fun and help keep us on our toes.”

  Petra gazed down at the purple Crocs on her size-ten feet. “Such as they are.”

  “Petra seems a little edgy, don’t you think?” asked Toni, as they laid flatware and set water glasses on the tables.

  “Mostly because of Saturday’s Take the Cake event,” said Suzanne. “She sort of spearheaded that whole idea, so I think she’s feeling responsible.”

  “But we’ll all pitch in,” said Toni. “We always do. And we’ve got volunteers lined up like crazy.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Suzanne, “because I’m pretty sure we’re going to have tons of entries in the cake-decorating contest. And a whole lot
of folks coming for the cake social.”

  “The cake judging is going to be my favorite part,” said Toni. “I love watching Ace of Cakes on TV, and now we’re gonna have our own mini competition.”

  Suzanne put the last water glass in place and surveyed the cafe. “We all set?”

  “We better be,” said Toni, slipping a long black Parisian waiter’s apron over her jeans and T-shirt, “because here comes our first customer.”

  Both women stood there with smiles on their faces as the door slowly swung open.

  Only it wasn’t a customer at all. Standing in the doorway, staring at them with a stricken look on her face, was Missy Langston.

  Suzanne took in Missy’s sad expression, haggard look, and slumped shoulders, and murmured, “Oh no.”