Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  “You should let Joey haul out the garbage,” Suzanne suggested. “Since your back is bugging you.”

  “Oh,” said Petra, looking slightly embarrassed. “I wasn’t carrying out garbage. I was...” She colored slightly. ‘This fellow came to the back door and I...”

  “One of our suppliers?” asked Suzanne. “Because you know I’m happy to handle that stuff.”

  “No,” said Petra. “Actually, there was this raggedy-looking man asking for a handout.” Her cheeks flared pink. “And I felt sorry for him—he looked so tattered and tired— that I gave him a couple of sandwiches.”

  “A homeless guy?” asked Suzanne. Could it be the same homeless man Sheriff Doogie had mentioned?

  “You know,” said Petra, thinking, “I think it might have even been the same guy we saw in the park Sunday. Kind of a strange coincidence, huh?”

  Suzanne was out the back door in a flash, searching right, then left, wondering why Baxter, who was tied out here, hadn’t sounded any kind of alarm.

  But Baxter was reclining on the grass, looking like the canine grand duke of the universe, giving her a look of supreme curiosity.

  And there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  Chapter sixteen

  Things went from barely normal to strangely bizarre when Carmen Copeland came sweeping in for her book signing.

  “Good Lord,” muttered Toni, as Carmen posed in the front hallway, then strode forcefully toward them. “Batman just dropped in from Gotham City.”

  Carmen was, indeed, wearing some kind of black cape— Suzanne figured it had to be cashmere from the genteel way it fluttered—over a black form-fitting dress that featured a very plunging V-neckline. At least a dozen chains of twisted, intermeshed gold nestled in that deep V.

  “Oh good,” said Carmen, dropping a bright blue bag on the signing table and whipping off her cape in one carefully calculated motion. “You’ve stocked plenty of books.” She waggled a finger at Suzanne and Toni who gazed placidly at her. “I have a tingly feeling about today. I think we’re going to sell beaucoup books.”

  I sure hope so, thought Suzanne. I hope having Carmen here is worth all the drama.

  “Dear,” said Carmen, plopping down in the author’s chair and addressing Toni, “I’d like a bottle of water. Still, not carbonated.”

  Toni rolled her eyes and sauntered off. Suzanne figured Toni would probably just bring her a glass of tap water.Warm tap water at that. Filched from Baxter’s dog dish.

  Digging in her blue bag, Carmen pulled out a stack of bookmarks and arranged them on the table. “Always like to hand these out, too,” she told Suzanne. “Since they feature my backlist.”

  Staring at Carmen’s blue bag, Suzanne experienced a slight ping. She’d seen that bag before, only in a different color. “Your bag is ...” began Suzanne.

  Carmen reached a hand out and caressed her bag gently. “A Birkin bag,” she said, with just a hint of a satisfied smile. “From Hermes.”

  “Like Samantha’s bag on Sex and the City,” said Suzanne. She really was a hard-core viewer.

  “Yes, I believe they did feature a similar bag.”

  A bag that cost seven thousand dollars, thought Suzanne. Holy cow, how many books does this lady sell in a year?

  Suzanne forced herself to stop thinking about Carmen, her money, and the intimidation factor that went along with it. Instead she said, “You might be interested to know that the Cackleberry Club is offering a special purchase with a purchase today.”

  “Oh?” said Carmen. Her dark eyes, lined top and bottom with black kohl, burned into Suzanne.

  “Customers who buy your new hardcover book can also get a special tea plate for six ninety-five,” Suzanne explained.

  Carmen wasn’t impressed. “And what exactly does a tea plate consist of?”

  “A bottomless cup of jasmine tea and a plate with two tea sandwiches, small slice of quiche, brownie bite, and miniature scone.”

  “All that for six ninety-five?” asked Carmen. Suddenly, she did seem impressed.

  “Only if you buy the book. Otherwise the price is nine ninety-five,” Suzanne pointed out.

  “I wouldn’t mind having one of those tea plates myself,” said Carmen. She batted her eyelashes. “Is it too early?”

  “Not really,” said Suzanne. “But your fans are starting to line up, so you might want to hold off.” Two women had already sidled up to the table, wanting an autographed book, and Suzanne could see a couple more fans headed toward the Book Nook.

  Carmen waved a manicured hand. “No problem. I’ll just make it all work. I’m an expert at multitasking, you’ll see.”

  “Okay,” said Suzanne. “Sure.”

  Turns out, having Carmen was worth the trouble. A long line snaked from the Book Nook out into the cafe. Dozens of romance fans showed up to meet Carmen in person, as well as other book lovers who were naturally curious and wanted the chance to rub shoulders with a top-selling, local author. Surprisingly, to Suzanne anyway, Carmen conducted herself like a total pro. She signed books, chatted with her fans, and even posed for pictures.

  And, of course, there was a huge spillover into the cafe. Which kept everyone hopping.

  When there was a slight break in the action, Carmen murmured to Suzanne, out of the corner of her mouth, “I understand you were first on the scene last night.”

  “How did you hear about that?” asked Suzanne. Carmen seemed to have a direct pipeline for current information.

  It was as if she’d bugged Doogie’s phone down at the law enforcement center.

  Carmen crinkled her eyes, trying to look mysterious. “I have my ways,” she purred.

  “Thinking about getting into the mystery writing business?” asked Suzanne.

  “You never know,” was Carmen’s cryptic reply. “I have quite a few irons in the fire right now.”

  Suzanne wondered if Carmen knew she was modeling at Alchemy this Friday. “You must be excited over the opening of your boutique,” she said to Carmen.

  “Absolutely,” purred Carmen. “I’m all about high style, which, until now, has been sadly lacking in Kindred and the surrounding communities.”

  Suzanne smoothed her white blouse, which she knew wasn’t remotely high style. “Missy seems to be handling opening plans nicely.”

  Carmen touched the end of her pen to the tip of her nose. “She’s doing a passable job.”

  “Like I mentioned last night,” said Suzanne, perturbed, “Missy’s still pretty upset about Ozzie.”

  Carmen waved a hand in an imperious grand duchess gesture. “And like I said, she’ll get over it soon enough.”

  “Carmen Copeland!” called an energetic male voice.

  Suzanne and Carmen both looked up to find Gene Gandle of the Bugle loping toward them. Tall and gangly, his squarish head seemed to bob on his thin stalk of a neck.

  Gene didn’t wait for an introduction, just grabbed Carmen’s hand in a gesture of sheer delight. “I’m so glad to finally meet you!” he simpered.

  Carmen narrowed her eyes. “And you are ... ?”

  “Of course, introductions,” murmured Gene. He flashed her a large, hopeful smile.

  “I’m Gene Gandle from the Bugle.”

  “Charmed,” said Carmen.

  “Come to do a little write-up, if you don’t mind, Miss Copeland,” said Gene.

  “Publicity,” cooed Carmen. “Another one of the necessary evils of my profession.”

  “The oldest?” murmured Suzanne.

  “I promise, Miss Copeland, this little interview will be a breeze,” said Gene, as he pulled out pad and pencil and juggled his camera.

  Suzanne could only watch in amusement. She’d never seen Gene simper over anyone quite so much.

  In between signing books, nibbling scones, and sipping tea, Carmen managed to give Gene the semblance of an interview. She yapped on about herself, her writing style, her rule of thumb for plotting, and her meteoric rise to fame.

  “According to the
information on your Web site,” said Gene, “you’ve inked yet another book contract with Pennington Publishing.”

  Carmen dimpled prettily. “A three-book contract.”

  “For six figures?” asked Gene, his pencil poised eagerly above his notepad.

  “Seven,” corrected Carmen.

  Gene made a few quick scratches, then looked up and said, “A little bird told me you’ve got a few other projects going, as well.”

  “Whatever are you referring to?” asked Carmen.

  “I hear you might be opening a fine dining establishment,” said Gene.

  At this Suzanne almost choked. A fine dining establishment? That was her dream! How could Carmen Copeland just waltz in and usurp her special dream!

  “That’s still in the early planning stage,” said Carmen, trying to sound mysterious. “Very sketchy.”

  “My understanding,” said Gene, “was that you made an offer to George Draper on his funeral home.”

  “What!” exclaimed Suzanne.

  “At this point it’s a competing offer,” said Carmen. “Since Mr. Draper’s already entertaining another possibility.”

  “Are you serious?” shrilled Suzanne. Information seemed to be flying at her left and right. “You mean from the Roth Funeral Home Consortium?”

  Both Carmen and Gene glanced at her with curiosity.

  “Yes,” said Carmen, “I believe it was from that particular company.”

  Gene bent closer to Carmen. “You’re a woman who deals in rather sensational story lines and plot twists. What do you make of all that’s going on in Kindred right now?”

  “Strange times,” murmured Carmen.

  “And you,” said Gene, suddenly focusing on Suzanne for the first time. “Discovering a second murder victim.” He seemed to relish his words. “How do you feel about that? Better yet, what quirk of fate made you the harbinger of all this bad news?”

  Suzanne sighed heavily. Gene may as well have dubbed her the angel of death. “I take it you’re writing a story on Bo Becker’s murder?” she asked in a dry tone.

  “How could the double murder of Ozzie Driesden and Bo Becker be anything but front-page news!” exclaimed Gene.

  “It wasn’t technically a double murder,” Suzanne pointed out.

  “Whatever,” said Gene. “Two homicides in Kindred all within a matter of days? That constitutes high drama.”

  “And you’re just the one to write the story, aren’t you?”

  said Suzanne. She was suddenly disliking Gene Gandle more and more.

  As a late influx of fans suddenly pushed their way in to meet Carmen, Suzanne grabbed Gene’s arm and pulled him away from Carmen’s table.

  “Do you have to put such a grisly perspective on things?” Suzanne asked. “Have a heart and consider the victims’ families, will you?”

  “You must know something,” pushed Gene.

  “Nada,” said Suzanne.

  “You know anything about this mysterious homeless guy?” he asked.

  “No,” said Suzanne. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.

  “Notice anything unusual last night when you found the body?”

  “Nope,” said Suzanne. That was her story and she was sticking to it.

  “What about Toni?” asked Gene. “I know she was out there with you.”

  “We just took a wrong turn,” said Suzanne. “Ended up in the thick of things by mistake.”

  Gandle smirked. “You’re thick as thieves if you ask me.”

  “And what’s this crap about Carmen opening a fine dining establishment?” asked Suzanne. She was more upset over that little tidbit of information than she was about Gene’s probing questions on the murders.

  “Carmen’s a pistol,” said Gene, glancing over at her with admiration. Then he gave Suzanne a sly look. “What’s wrong? Afraid of a little not-so-friendly competition?”

  “Absolutely not, Gene,” said Suzanne. “It’s a big free-market economy.”

  “In that case,” said Gene, “how would you like to place a couple of ads in the Bugle?”

  “You’re selling ad space now, too?” asked Suzanne.

  “It’s commissionable, Suzanne. A guy’s got to earn a living.”

  “I think I’ll pass for the time being.”

  “You should support your local paper, Suzanne,” glowered Gene.

  “I will just as soon as you start supporting your local cafe,” countered Suzanne.

  Chapter seventeen

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Suzanne, when they pulled into Hoobly’s parking lot at eight o’clock that night. “This dump is jumping.”

  The oversized Quonset hut out on County Road 18 had desultory strings of Christmas lights dangling from its rooftop, flashing yellow lights on the giant Hoobly’s sign over the front door, and a parking lot jammed with pickup trucks, SUVs, and older-model cars. There were even a couple of eighteen-wheelers parked out back where the gravel edged up to a bean field.

  “Are there this many sorry people in the world?” asked Suzanne. Hoobly’s really did have a rotten reputation. Bikers, bookies, and even a few dope peddlers were known to populate its murky interior.

  “Appears so,” said Toni. “Place is jam-packed.” She fluffed her hair, wriggled her shoulders, and pulled her snug-fitting jean jacket down over her hips.

  “Their drinks are supposedly watered down,” commented Suzanne. “And I’m sure the food is to die from. Literally.”

  They clomped up onto the front porch and Toni put a hand on the rough-hewn door handle. Sensing Suzanne’s reluctance, she said, “You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

  “No, we’ve come this far,” said Suzanne, as faint strains of country and western music wafted out to greet them. “And I’m just curious enough about Junior.”

  “Okeydoke,” said Toni.

  But when they pulled open the door and walked in, it was another story altogether. Country and western music blared from the jukebox, a long bar filled with patrons stretched off to their left, a sea of pool tables and a pull tab booth was off on the right. A permanent blue cloud of cigarette smoke seemed to hover over everything.

  “Didn’t they ever hear of the Indoor Clean Air Act?” sniffed Suzanne.

  “Not here,” said Toni, pulling Suzanne through the crowd. “Not at Hoobly’s.”

  A man in a black T-shirt and trucker’s cap loomed in front of them. “Either of you gals care to dance?” he asked.

  “No, thanks,” said Toni, propelling Suzanne toward an unoccupied booth in back. “Maybe later.”

  “Maybe never,” said Suzanne, sliding across a cracked black plastic seat.

  “You can’t be too harsh on these men,” said Toni. “These are the real people. The guys who drive the trucks, farm the land, and ...”

  “Hustle the chicks.” Suzanne laughed.

  “Yeah,” said Toni, laughing with her. “That’s about the score, I guess.”

  “But not with us tonight,” said Suzanne.

  Toni turned grim. “Not until we figure out what that moron, Junior, is up to.”

  “What if he doesn’t show?” asked Suzanne.

  “He’ll be here,” Toni assured her. “I talked to him earlier and casually asked if he was gonna drop by my place tonight.

  He specifically said he was meeting somebody here and that he’d come by late. Like not until eleven o’clock.”

  “So now we wait,” said Suzanne, glancing around.

  “Maybe have a drink?” asked Toni. A waitress in low-slung blue jeans and a pink belly-grazing T-shirt plopped down coasters in front of them.

  “Why not?” said Suzanne. “Miller Lite. Bottle, if you have it.”

  “Same here,” said Toni.

  The waitress lifted an eyebrow. “You ladies see those two dudes sitting over there?”

  All three of them peered up the line of booths at two guys in western shirts and hats.

  “Uh-huh,” said Toni. She sounded just this side of intere
sted.

  “They offered to buy you a drink,” said the waitress.

  “Tell ‘em no thanks,” said Suzanne. She gave a little wave toward the two cowboys. “Thanks anyway, guys.”

  One of them smiled and tipped his hat at her.

  “Well, wasn’t that nice and friendly?” said Toni.