Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  “Of course it is!” thundered Suzanne. “Which is why you have to lie exceedingly low. Fact is, we could have had all of you busted last night!The only thing standing between you and a felony conviction is Toni’s good grace!”

  Junior grimaced.

  The front door rattled and all three of them turned nervously to look. But it was Joey Ewald coming in for his stint as busboy.

  Joey grinned when he saw them clustered at the counter. “Hey, ladies,” he called to Suzanne and Toni. Then turned his focus on Junior. “How ya doin’, Junior?”

  “Never better,” said Junior, giving Joey a cocky grin and a thumbs-up sign. At which point Toni grabbed a pot holder and whacked him in the head.

  “Ouch,” whined Junior. “What’d I do to deserve that?”

  “You know!” hissed Toni.

  “You still skateboarding?” Junior called to Joey, trying to muster his dignity.

  “Oh yeah, man,” said Joey. “Thinkin’ about changing my name to Joey Crash.”

  “Cool,” said Junior, as Joey disappeared into the kitchen.

  Toni smacked him with the pot holder again. “What are you ... ten?” she asked. “Grow up.”

  “I am growed up,” argued Junior. “Fact is, I could probably be a heckuva role model to that kid.”

  “Are you serious?” snorted Suzanne. “You barely squirmed your way through vo-tech, you’ve been arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct and forced to do community service, and your hobbies are gambling, fast cars, and faster women.” She glanced at Toni. “Well, they used to be anyway.”

  “No,” said Toni, “they still are.”

  “And now that we have your undivided attention,” said Suzanne, “I have a few more questions.”

  “Shoot,” said Junior. “I’m an open book.”

  “A comic book,” muttered Toni.

  “Did you ever have dealings with Bo Becker?” asked Suzanne. “And I want an honest answer.”

  “No,” said Junior, looking earnest for the first time that morning. “But I always considered Bo a stand-up guy. And a heck of a good driver, too. He used to whip that Mustang of his around the track pretty good when they had amateur night over at the speedway.”

  “Do you know anything about what happened to Becker?” asked Toni.

  Junior shook his head and frowned. “Uh-uh. Just heard that he got killed. Hunged, I guess.”

  “Hanged,” corrected Toni.

  “Was he dealing drugs?” asked Suzanne.

  “Not that I know of,” said Junior. “Not with my guys anyway.” He swallowed hard, then said, “At least I don’t think he was.”

  “Junior,” said Suzanne, “you have to promise you’ll stay clean. Cross your heart and hope to die.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Junior. “Until lately, I pretty much have been clean.” His earnestness was suddenly replaced by his old swagger. “Fact is, I’ve been a doggone entrepreneur.”

  “Do you even know the definition of an entrepreneur?” asked Toni.

  ”Course, I do,” said Junior.

  Toni folded her arms in front of her, daring him. “What is it, Mr. Smart Guy?”

  Junior scratched his head vigorously, then scowled, as though he was engaging in deep thought. “It’s a guy who does business.”

  “Nice try,” said Suzanne. “See if you end up a financial reporter for CNN.”

  A few minutes later they allowed Junior to make his escape. Giving him a final cautionary warning and a freshly baked corn muffin.

  “I’m gonna call Doogie right now,” said Toni. “Anonymously.”

  “Jeez,” said Suzanne, thinking. “Won’t he be able to trace the call right back to us?”

  “I thought of that,” said Toni, “so I’m gonna use a trick I learned.” She pulled a phone card from her jeans pocket and waved it at Suzanne. “I’ll use a phone card, which is virtually untraceable. I saw how the whole deal worked on an old episode of The Sopranos. This mob guy used a phone card so there was no way the cops could trace his call.”

  “Good to know,” said Suzanne, spinning on her heels and heading into the kitchen. She really didn’t want to know too much about Toni’s phone call. She was way too involved already.

  Petra was in the kitchen, humming to herself and whipping up a batch of pancake batter.

  “How’s your back?” asked Suzanne, draping an arm lightly around Petra’s shoulders.

  “I saw my chiropractor last night, who helped enormously,” said Petra.

  “Excellent,” said Suzanne.

  “But then he told me to go home and do bicycle crunches.”

  “Sounds athletic,” said Suzanne.

  “Oh, they are,” said Petra. “They’re nasty semi-sit-up things where you lie on the floor and touch your elbow to your opposite knee, alternating sides.”

  “Ouch,” said Toni, pushing her way through the swinging door. “I heard that.”

  “But I have a confession to make,” continued Petra. “All I did was curl up on the couch, watch old movies, and polish off a giant Toblerone candy bar.”

  “Ah,” said Toni, grinning. “Le chocolat therapie. Always a tried-and-true treatment.”

  “Swiss, I think,” said Suzanne with a laugh.

  By ten o’clock Petra’s knitters began arriving in droves. Some of them hustled into the Knitting Nest, where dozens of extra chairs had been installed. The overflow set up camp in the Book Nook. And a dozen or so knitters plopped down at tables in the cafe where they ordered up coffee, tea, muffins, scones, and slices of Foggy Morning Soufflé.

  “So all the knitters have sponsors?” Suzanne asked Petra as she deftly plated breakfasts.

  “Right,” said Petra. “Kind of like the dog walk you participated in last spring,” said Petra. “You took pledges for every mile you walked, right?”

  “Sure,” said Suzanne. Although, after three miles, Baxter had pretty much made it clear he was bored out of his skull.

  “The Knit-In works almost the same way,” explained Petra. “All my knitters have sponsors who’ll pay so many cents for each row knitted.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” said Suzanne, as she pulled a tin of blueberry breakfast squares from the oven.

  “And then, once the items are finished ...”

  “That’s right,” said Suzanne, “it’s all coming back to me now. Whew, guess I had a senior moment.”

  “Happens to me all the time,” said Petra.

  “All done,” said Toni, bursting into the kitchen. She made a big show of dusting her hands. “I made the call.”

  “I don’t want to know,” said Suzanne.

  “Neither do I,” said Petra.

  “Then mum’s the word,” said Toni, putting her thumb and index finger to her mouth and making a little zipping motion.

  Just before lunch, amidst the low hum of conversation and gentle clacking of needles, Suzanne took a quick tour of the Knit-In. And was charmed by what she saw. One knitter, who was curled up in a cozy armchair in the Knitting Nest, was working away on a cranberry red cardigan with cable accents down the front. Delicious!

  Another knitter was using an almost iridescent green and gold-flecked mohair yarn to knit a shawl-collar sweater.

  In the Book Nook, Suzanne fell in love with an indigo blue sweater vest with a generous flounce of ruffles down the front. She wondered if she could ever learn that type of stitch, then quickly relegated it to that part of her brain where she secretly nursed a desire to parlez-vous Frangais, take classes in ballroom dancing, and learn how to snow-shoe—none of which had come to pass yet. Petra had tried to teach her to knit, but she hadn’t been the most gifted student.

  “Hey, Suzanne,” one knitter greeted her. “Grab a pair of needles and join us.” Suzanne glanced over and recognized Toby Baines, who worked part time at the phone company and wrote a fun advice column for the Bugle. She was in her mid-fifties with smiling brown eyes and shoulder-length brown hair pulled back into a loose, low ponytail. Though she didn’t
wear a speck of makeup, her complexion was smooth, clear, and practically unlined.

  “Hey, Toby,” Suzanne said as she eased over to see what she was working on.

  “Hasn’t Petra taught you how to knit yet?” Toby asked, with a mischievous smile.

  “She tried, but I’m a poor student,” confessed Suzanne. “I tried a couple times, then flunked out.”

  “You didn’t flunk knitting class, you just flunked attendance,” Toby told her. “You didn’t put in enough time. There is a bit of practice involved, you know.”

  “Probably right,” agreed Suzanne.

  “I heard about the other night,” said Toby, lowering her voice.

  “About... ?” said Suzanne.

  “You finding that young man swinging from a tree. And, of course, helping out the sheriff and all.”

  “Who said I was helping Doogie?” asked Suzanne, her curiosity roused. Did everyone in Kindred know she was looking into things?

  Toby gave a benign smile. “Oh, that’s just the talk around town. You know how folks gossip.”

  Yes, she did.

  “And such an awful thing about Ozzie,” whispered Toby. “It’s very strange . . . two murders . . . two people who worked together . . .” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to gather her thoughts as well as her stitches. “People are locking their doors at night, giving strangers an extra-wide berth.”

  “What else are people saying?” asked Suzanne.

  “Lots of speculation,” said Toby, as she continued to work on what was taking shape as a beret. “Of course, there’s always the chance the deaths aren’t connected.”

  “Maybe not,” said Suzanne, “though I’m still wondering why Bo Becker ended up at that abandoned church.”

  “You’re a smart lady,” said Toby. “I’ll bet you figure it out.”

  Chapter twenty

  Because of the Knit-In, the luncheon menu at the Cackleberry Club was fairly simple. Cackling Chicken Salad, corn and red pepper pancakes, and green eggs and ham.

  Nothing put a damper on customers, though. In addition to the twenty-five knitters who’d poured in earlier, the ladies of the Cackleberry Club also found themselves with a full seating by the time eleven thirty rolled around.

  And wouldn’t you know it? Ozzie’s partner, George Draper, was one of them.

  “George,” said Suzanne, as she hastened to his table to take his order. She hadn’t known him all that well, had always referred to him as Mr. Draper. But since their terse conversation following Ozzie’s funeral, it just seemed easier to call him George.

  “Suzanne,” he said back to her. Obviously, they were on the same wavelength.

  “I understand you’re thinking about leaving the business,” said Suzanne.

  Draper hunched forward and puckered his lips. “Well... perhaps.”

  “What happened?” asked Suzanne. “What made you change your mind? Did Ray Lynch get to you? Were you threatened?”

  “No, no,” said Draper, frowning slightly. “I’m just rethinking things. Getting my priorities straight.”

  “And one of those priorities might be to accept the Roth Funeral Home Consortium’s offer?”

  “Could be,” Draper responded. He was trying to appear agreeable, but seemed unhappy deep down.

  “Sounds like you’re drinking the Kool-Aid, George.” Suzanne smiled at him, but not all that warmly.

  “Not at all,” said Draper. “Fact is, I’m entertaining another offer, too.” He managed a hoarse chuckle. “When it rains it pours.”

  “You’re talking about Carmen Copeland?” asked Suzanne.

  George looked slightly taken aback. “How would you know about that?”

  “Everybody knows about Carmen’s offer by now,” said Suzanne. “She’s probably Facebooking and Twittering her little head off.” And if someone hasn’t heard, Carmen will make it a point to inform them personally.

  Draper nodded. “Carmen told me her offer was pretty spur-of-the-moment. That she was toying with the idea of opening some kind of bookstore or art gallery.”

  “Is that so?” said Suzanne. “I heard restaurant.”

  “Really,” said Draper, sounding surprised.

  “She’s quite the busy little bee,” said Suzanne. “Her clothing boutique, Alchemy, has its grand opening tomorrow.”

  “Maybe Carmen’s trying to buy up the town,” said Draper, letting loose a weak chuckle.

  That was one angle Suzanne hadn’t thought of. A rather unpleasant angle at that. Carmenville.

  Draper squinted at the chalkboard. “Does that really say ‘green eggs and ham’?”

  “Yes, but only the eggshells are actually green,” Suzanne told him. “A lovely mint color. Laid by Araucana hens.”

  “Mmm,” said Draper. “I think I’ll have the chicken salad.”

  “Good choice,” said Suzanne, jotting the order down on her order pad. But she wasn’t finished with George Draper yet. “Have you spoken with Sheriff Doogie today?” she asked.

  George shook his head. He seemed to sense where Suzanne was going.

  “I know he’s been busy with the two murders ...” began Suzanne.

  Now George looked downright unhappy. “That’s all folks want to talk about. The murders.” His voice became a raspy whisper. “And both victims from Driesden and Draper...”

  “Must make business rather difficult,” offered Suzanne.

  George threw her a sharp glance. “Business? There hasn’t been any business, unless you count Ozzie.” He curled his fingers around the side of the table as if to steady himself. “I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to conduct business in this town again.”

  “Unless you sell out,” said Suzanne. “And isn’t it amazing that the Roth Consortium is conveniently standing by?”

  “I know what you’re saying,” said Draper, “but I still don’t believe they’d resort to murder. They’re a . . . well, the company has a solid reputation.”

  “Still,” continued Suzanne, “they’re suspects. Of course, not the only ones.”

  “No,” allowed Draper.

  “I understand Sheriff Doogie questioned Earl Stensrud at some length,” said Suzanne.

  “Because of his connection to Missy Langston,” said Draper. “And Missy’s former involvement with Ozzie.”

  “Mmm,” said Suzanne.

  “But Earl’s involvement still feels like a long shot to me,” said Draper. “In fact, the only thing I’ve heard about Earl is that he’s contributing heavily to Mayor Mobley’s reelection campaign.”

  Suzanne nodded, thinking that a hefty campaign donation might buy a guilty man a good deal of protection.

  “The last thing I heard from Sheriff Doogie,” said Draper, “was that he was looking for some homeless guy who was spotted in the park last Sunday.”

  “I heard that, too,” said Suzanne, thinking about the guy Petra had given a handout to.

  “So you see?” said Draper. “The wheels of justice turn slowly, but they do turn.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Suzanne, flipping her order book closed and edging away from Draper.

  Back in the kitchen, Suzanne called out, “Hey there,” to Petra.

  “Yes?” Petra, pepper shaker in hand, was liberally seasoning the chicken salad.

  “You remember that homeless guy who stopped by here yesterday? The one you gave the sandwiches to?”

  Petra set down the pepper and grabbed for the salt. “Uh-huh.” She let fly a couple of quick sprinkles.

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  Petra wrinkled her nose. “Oh gosh, not really.”

  “Think hard,” said Suzanne.

  “Well,” said Petra, wiping her hands on her blue-checked apron, “for one thing, he was sad and ragged-looking. And definitely seemed hungry.”

  “Okay,” said Suzanne. “What else did you notice about him?”

  Petra thought for a couple of moments, then gave a sad smile. “His skin looked awfully weathe
red and worn and he wore a faded green jacket, kind of like an army jacket.” She paused. “Now that I think about it, I suppose that’s why I felt so sorry for him. Because I thought he might be a veteran.” A shadow crossed Petra’s face. “Donny was a veteran, you know. Served two tours in Vietnam starting with the Tet Offensive. The doctors at the VA won’t admit it, of course, but I think the chemicals, the so-called rainbow herbicides they used over there, are to blame for his Alzheimer’s.”