by Laura Childs
“Eggbeater,” she said aloud, just as contestant number three piped up with, “I’d like to solve the puzzle.”
Naturally it was eggbeater.
Okay, Suzanne told herself. If I can look at those puny clues and pull eggbeater out of the sky, why can’t I dredge up a suspect or two?
Of course, Sheriff Doogie had already taken care of that.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Suzanne was in her suede jacket, blue jeans, and boots, standing in a sweet-smelling hay barn, saddling her horse. With the cinch snugged tight, she led Mocha outside, grabbed a handful of slightly oily mane to help pull herself into the saddle, and then was off in a slow canter around the perimeter of the field.
The sky had faded to a smoky purple, the final glory of the day manifesting itself in a wash of thin clouds and a handful of glittering stars, like a child’s game of jacks tossed out onto a dark blue blanket. From onesies all the way up to tensies.
Across the field, Suzanne could see the lights of the Cackleberry Club. The little place glowed like a beacon and Suzanne figured that book night, romance book night, was probably a rousing success. At least it would be once Toni trotted out the cheddar cheese biscuits and Pinot Grigio.
Suzanne worked her horse for a good forty-five minutes, practicing from going from a fast walk right into a canter. Doing a little remedial work on neck reining while they were at it. Mocha had spent his summer grazing with a herd of cows, so he was lazy, obstinate, and a little out of practice. Then again, so was she.
Suzanne walked him slowly back to the barn, letting the big horse cool down gradually. Standing in his box stall, she pulled off the saddle and blanket, wiped him down with a chamois cloth, then grabbed a curry comb. The horse’s wide back quivered and his front feet stomped as she ran the metal teeth over him. He liked the sensation, but was uncertain about all her fussing. Oh well, he’d get used to it.
Dust motes twirled in the low light as Suzanne groomed her horse.
And her thoughts drifted back to Sam Hazelet. Their earlier exchange bothered her a little. She liked him, could probably seriously like him, but she was a little nervous now that she’d maybe sent the wrong signals. Had she been too cool? Too indifferent? Or too pushy?
What should she do? she wondered. Hang a sign over her heart that said, Open for Business? Or just bag those worries and let things take a natural course? Yeah, probably that would be best.
Suzanne hung Mocha’s bridle on a peg, then poured out a couple cups of oats into his feed box. As she turned to leave, Mocha lifted his large head and stared at her with luminous brown eyes as if to say, Leaving so soon?
“You need a buddy, don’t you?” she said. “It’s probably lonely out here when nobody’s around. Tell you what, I’ll try to find you some kind of buddy.”
At nine o’clock when Suzanne came barreling through the front door of her home, feeling relaxed, at peace, and a little wobbly in her knees and thighs, the phone was jangling. She snatched up the receiver on what was probably the final ring before it switched over to the answering machine.
“Hello?”
“Hello ... again. This is Sam.”
“Oh ... hi.” Balancing on one foot, she tried to slide off her left cowboy boot by scraping it against the right one. Her technique wasn’t working very well.
“You sound out of breath,” said Sam.
“I was just . . . outside,” she told him. “Goofing around.”
“Listen, when we spoke earlier, I forgot to ask you something.”
“Shoot,” said Suzanne, staring down at the inlaid turquoise leather on her half-off boot, fully expecting Sam’s question to be either murder or drug-related.
“Would you have dinner with me Friday night?” Suzanne’s grin, as she accepted, was a mile wide.
Chapter ten
Tuesday was Eggs in a Basket day at the Cackleberry Club. Suzanne and Toni crowded around the butcher-block table with Petra, arranging thin slices of ham in muffin tins, then watching as she poured a thick, foamy egg mixture on top. Once each “basket” was filled and topped with a generous spoonful of shredded cheddar cheese, they were slid into a hot oven.
“Look who’s queen of the rodeo this morning,” exclaimed Petra as she cracked more eggs, single-handed, into an antique speckled ceramic bowl. Toni was all duded up in a new hot pink western shirt with silver embroidery and matching silver buttons. On her feet were a brand-new pair of buckskin-colored Tony Llama boots.
“Gifts from Junior,” she told them, trying to sound offhanded. “He says he’s been inspired to share the wealth.”
“You saw Junior last night?” asked Petra, slightly aghast. She paused, eggs in hand.
“I thought you declared a moratorium on seeing Junior,” said Suzanne, jumping in. “I thought you’d pretty much decided you were going for the big D.”
“Divorce,” said Petra, enunciating the word in an exaggerated manner.
Toni looked pained. “But Junior brought gifts. What was I supposed to do? Act like an ingrate?”
“You could try saying no,” said Petra. She turned toward her grill, grabbed a spatula, and flipped a half dozen blueberry pancakes.
“You could have told him not to darken your doorway,” said Suzanne.
“Junior’s TV was on the blink and he wanted to watch reruns of American Gladiators,” Toni explained, a little defensively.
“I think there’s more to Junior’s visit than meets the eye,” said Petra. “Trust me, he’s after something. The new duds were just to butter you up.” She glanced at her pancakes. “These are ready.”
“You think?” Toni’s face fell. “I guess I hadn’t considered that particular angle.”
Suzanne held out two plates for Petra’s pancakes. “I think you better sniff out some details on Junior’s so-called delivery job,” she told Toni. Then she bumped the swinging door with her hip and sailed out into the cafe. The place was only half full, but it was still early. Pretty soon they’d have a packed house, folks coming from all over the county to enjoy their food and, Suzanne liked to believe, the homey ambiance of the Cackleberry Club.
Suzanne delivered her plates of cakes, brought pitchers of maple, blueberry, and boysenberry syrup, poured refills of coffee and English breakfast tea, then finally looked up and drew a deep breath. And noticed Earl Stensrud, Missy’s ex and now, she supposed, Missy’s boyfriend for a second term, occupying the far table near the window. Earl was digging into a fluffy omelet that Toni must have delivered. Funny she hadn’t mentioned Earl being here.
Sidling over to his table, carrying a pot of coffee, Suzanne said, “Morning, Earl. How’s breakfast?”
Earl grinned up at her with his narrow face, receding hairline, and a speck of spinach caught between his front teeth. “Tasty,” he told her. “Best spinach and feta cheese omelet in town.”
“Well, I coulda told you that,” said Suzanne. Pouring out a slow stream of coffee into his cup, she added, “I understand you moved back here to sell insurance.”
Earl’s head bobbed like it was spring-loaded. “For Universal Allied Home and Life. Most people are unawares, but insurance is the most important financial instrument a person can have.” He paused, then gave a questioning squint. “You got enough insurance, Suzanne? Business insurance, I mean. For the Cackleberry Club?”
“We’re pretty well set,” she told him, hoping to avoid the inevitable sales pitch.
“I could offer a free analysis,” said Earl. “You might find a need to up your coverage.” He glanced around. “Place looks fairly profitable, but if something were to happen ...” Now Earl looked serious, like he’d peered into the not-so-distant future and seen an unhappy vision looming before him.
“I’m not losing any sleep, Earl,” Suzanne told him.
“Got flood insurance?” he asked. “What if there’s a flood?”
Catawba Creek, a babbling little trout stream that hadn’t flooded its banks even once in the last century, was at least
six miles away. Suzanne told him so.
Unfazed, Earl plowed on. “Hit by lightning?”
Suzanne sighed. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Fire?” Earl glanced sideways out the window where workers were hoisting beams and pounding away at two-by-fours, busily rebuilding the Journey’s End Church.
“Don’t even breathe that word in here!” warned Suzanne. “The Journey’s End Church fire was a trauma for everyone.”
“Suit yourself, Suzanne,” said Earl, taking a slurp of coffee.
“I always do,” she replied.
“I understand Missy’s got you nosing around town concerning Ozzie’s murder.” Now Earl gave her a hard stare.
“Maybe,” said Suzanne, being a little evasive.
“She thinks you’re quite the little Nancy Drew.” He let loose a mirthless chuckle.
“Missy’s a friend,” said Suzanne. “I’d do anything to help her, especially after the rude treatment she’s received from Sheriff Doogie.”
Earl cocked an index finger at Suzanne. “If you’re such a hotshot investigator, maybe you oughta take a look at George Draper.”
“Ozzie’s partner?” Suzanne’s brow furrowed. “I’d say you’re out of your mind.”
“The thing of it is,” said Earl, glancing around and lowering his voice, “I sold Driesden and Draper an insurance policy a few months ago.”
“So what?” replied Suzanne. “You’ve probably been offering free analyses to everyone and his brother-in-law. They just happened to take the bait.”
“It was key person insurance,” said Earl, enunciating each word carefully.
Suzanne stared at him, wondering where Earl was going with this. “Meaning?” She tapped her foot impatiently.
“Meaning,” said Earl, “that if one partner died, the other would receive a rather tidy sum of money.” He paused. “Enough to buy out the other’s interest and then some.”
“How tidy is that sum?” asked Suzanne. “Can you give me a number?”
Now Earl looked aghast. “That would be unethical.”
“But it’s okay to point fingers,” Suzanne chided. “To toss out innuendos about your client.”
Earl threw up both hands in a gesture of frustration. “I’m just saying, Suzanne.”
Back in the kitchen, Suzanne said, “Earl Stensrud is a real slimeball.”
Petra ducked down and peered out through the pass-through. “He’s out there?”
“Yes,” said Suzanne. “And, interestingly enough, he’s trying to deflect any scrutiny that might be directed at him onto George Draper. Call it the old pinball technique.”
“Scrutiny on Draper for Ozzie’s murder?” Petra couldn’t quite believe it.
“Earl assured me that George Draper was going to benefit greatly from an insurance policy he sold to Driesden and Draper,” said Suzanne.
“Huh,” said Petra, pulling a tin of bubbling, golden brown Eggs in a Basket from the oven. “I didn’t think anyone ever benefited. Insurance companies are tighter’n razor clams.” She sprinkled on some additional shredded cheddar for good measure. “They just hate opening their pockets and paying out claims.”
Toni came bustling in with a stack of dirty dishes. “I just caught the tail end of your conversation and you’re right about insurance companies and insurance salesmen being tightwads. Guess how much of a tip that moron Earl left me?”
“How much?” asked Suzanne. Earl Stensrud did strike her as a parsimonious ass.
“Fifty cents!” shrilled Toni. “Can you believe it? That comes to something like ... six percent!”
“Makes Junior look like Rockefeller,” mumbled Petra.
“Doesn’t it?” answered Toni.
* * *
Just before lunch there was a run on the Book Nook. Suzanne wasn’t sure if it was because of the Knit-In Thursday or Saturday’s Take the Cake event, but customers were grabbing books on knitting, needlecraft, quilting, baking, and cake decorating like crazy. One book, written by two women who called themselves the Knit Wits, was a humorous take on knitting. It illustrated simple stitches and fun projects as told through their own trial and error.
Suzanne was about to run across to the cafe to help set up for lunch when a yellow Post-it note stuck to the back wall caught her eye. It said CHEESE in block letters.
Slipping into the office, Suzanne thumbed through her Rolodex and dialed the number for Cloverdale Farm.
“Mike,” she said, when she finally got him on the line. “We’re down to our last two wheels of cheese. Are you planning a delivery anytime soon?”
“Sure am,” he told her, “but it ain’t the kind you’re thinking of. I got two prime Guernseys ready to calve any time now. And, wouldn’t you know it, this is the week Ruth Ann picked to visit her sister in Sioux Falls.”
“What if I drove over to your place?” asked Suzanne. She could hear a barnyard symphony of mooing, chewing, and clip-clopping in the background.
“That’d be fine, Suzanne,” replied Mike. “I got a cooler full of cheese, so ... you know where to find me.”
“I’m guessing in the barn?” said Suzanne. But he’d already hung up.
Then, just as Suzanne was scratching a note to herself, the phone rang. She snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Suzanne? It’s Missy.”
“Hi, honey, how are you?” Suzanne hated to ask if Missy had been burning the midnight oil last night. Because she was pretty sure she had been, judging by the stress and tiredness in her voice.
“Hanging in there,” said Missy, sounding slightly bereft. “I was just wondering if you’d heard anything. Or done a little ... I don’t know what you’d call it... sleuthing?”
“Lots of rumors flying around,” said Suzanne, “but nothing concrete.” She sure as heck wasn’t going to tell Missy that Earl, her ex-husband and beau du jour, was casting aspersion on her former beau’s business partner. Suzanne shook her head. It was all very confusing. “I’ll keep my ears open though,” Suzanne promised.
“Well... okay.” Missy sounded disappointed. “Are you coming to the visitation tonight?”
“Of course,” said Suzanne, thinking it might shake out as a rather strange gathering.
“If you come up with anything ...” said Missy.
“Absolutely,” said Suzanne. “You’ll be the first to know. Hey, maybe Sheriff Doogie will drop by and I can pump him for information.”
“I think he’d sooner have his stomach pumped,” Missy replied in a sour tone.
But Missy was wrong about that. Because Sheriff Doogie did drop by right before lunch, just as Suzanne was jotting the specials on the board. And, for some reason, Doogie seemed far less reticent in discussing Ozzie’s murder.
“How goes the investigation?” Suzanne asked, as Doogie slid his khaki bulk onto a nearby stool. She continued to scratch away with her colored chalk, writing down Corn Chowder, Egg Salad Sandwich, Turkey Fajita, Cackleberry Club Brown Sugar Meatloaf, and Pumpkin Pie.
Doogie gave a low whistle. “That’s a fine lineup today,” he told her.
“Yes, it is,” agreed Suzanne, dotting the i in pie. Doogie was a man who appreciated real home cooking, probably because he didn’t get much anymore. He was a widower whose wife had died of breast cancer some five years ago. After her death, he’d resigned from the state patrol and run for sheriff. Opposed by a former garbage hauler, he’d been elected in a landslide. Over the years, a few women had made a run at Doogie, but none had caught his eye. Doogie remained polite but standoffish.
“Is that pie made fresh from real pumpkins?” asked Doogie. “‘Cause if it is, I’ll have me a piece.”
“Of course, you will,” said Suzanne. When did Doogie not get a free ride at the Cackleberry Club? “I was asking about the murder?” she prompted again.
Doogie sucked air in through his front teeth. “Thing’s are goin’ slow. I’ve been doin’ this by the book, following procedure, conducting interviews, but...”
“No h
ot leads?” said Suzanne.
“I got dog poop,” admitted Doogie. “Ozzie didn’t seem to have any enemies.”
“How about friends?” asked Suzanne. “Sometimes friends can become enemies. Anger, jealousy, disputes over money ...”
“Funny thing about that, too,” said Doogie. “Ozzie didn’t have a lot of close friends. Maybe folks are hesitant to cozy up to an undertaker... I don’t know.”
“Maybe so,” said Suzanne. Although Missy had. For a while, anyway.
Doogie leaned across the counter. “You heard anything, Suzanne?”
Her front teeth worried her bottom lip for a moment and then she said, “Earl Stensrud was in for breakfast a little while ago, trying to stir up rumors about George Draper.”
