by Laura Childs
“The rumor mill’s been churning overtime about you, too,” said Sam with a laugh. “I understand you’re the odds-on favorite to solve the two murders.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Suzanne. She grabbed the linen napkin from her lap and blotted her lips.
“But you’ve done it before,” said Sam. “Solved a murder, I mean.”
Suzanne let a hand flutter, as if to say, not really.
“Come on,” he urged her.
“Stumbled on an answer is more like it,” she finally admitted.
“But you’ve been nosing around,” said Sam.
Suzanne’s shoulders lifted half an inch. “Some.”
“More than some,” said Sam. “You were the one who found Becker’s body. So ... ?” He waggled his fingers in a friendly “gimme” gesture.
“I’m not any closer to solving those two cases than Sheriff Doogie is,” said Suzanne.
“But you must have a theory ...”
Suzanne picked up the menus and handed one to Sam. “The Muscovy duck is excellent,” she told him. “So is the standing rib roast. But watch out for the hanger steak; it can be a little on the tough side.”
“I’m just going to keep asking you,” Sam told her. “And maybe if I ply you with enough wine...” He grinned at her.
“Maybe,” she replied, her mouth twitching at the corners.
While Sam perused his menu, Suzanne glanced about the dining room. The wood-paneled walls with brass sconces lent a warm, cozy feeling. A fire crackled in the large stone fireplace that practically dominated an entire wall. Deer antlers and a shelf of antique ceramic beer steins contributed to a German schloss-like atmosphere.
She and Walter had enjoyed their share of dinners here, of course. And had once spent a night upstairs at the B and B. There’d been an antique sleigh bed with billowing featherbeds, as well as a small gas fireplace in the corner of their room. Suzanne let loose a small sigh. Just one of a thousand good times, relegated now to that quadrant of her brain reserved for special, cherished memories. Memories she could pull out and peruse at will. Of Walter. Her parents, long gone now. A few uncles and aunts. A dear friend, Gayle, who had succumbed to breast cancer.
“Suzanne?” A large man wearing a chef’s jacket and towering white hat suddenly hovered at her elbow.
She looked up, blinked once. “Bernie? Hi!” she exclaimed. “How are you?”
Bernie Affolter, the head chef at Kopell’s, leaned down and brushed his stubbly cheek against her smooth one. “Great to see you here. It’s been . . . ages.” He grinned again, this time in Sam’s direction. “Hello.”
Suzanne made hasty introductions. “Sam Hazelet, this is Bernie Affolter, head chef.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Sam, extending a hand. “We were just going over your menu. Everything looks terrific.”
“Mind a few suggestions?” he asked.
“That’d be great,” said Sam. “Direct from the man who knows.”
“The Copper River salmon is fresh, never frozen,” said Bernie. “And the Muscovy duck is our specialty.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Sam.
“And tonight we’re doing grilled rib eye with caramelized onions and roast carrots,” added Bernie. “So, Suzanne,” he continued, “when are you going to open your own restaurant?”
“I already did,” said Suzanne with a laugh.
“I mean a fine dining place,” said Bernie. “That’s always been her dream,” he confided to Sam.
Sam looked interested. “Is that so?”
“More of a pipe dream, I think,” said Suzanne. “Still going to be a couple years before the Cackleberry Club is humming along on its own.”
“Hey,” said Bernie, “that recipe for crab chowder you gave me?”
Suzanne nodded.
“When I put it on the menu last month,” said Bernie, “we sold out every night.”
“Wow,” said Sam.
“I’m thinking now,” said Bernie, “that I might substitute lobster for the crab and add a little sherry.”
“No reason why you couldn’t,” said Suzanne, thrilled her recipe had been so popular.
When Bernie returned to the kitchen, Sam gave Suzanne a mischievous smile. “I didn’t know you were a foodie.”
“I’m not,” said Suzanne. “Not really.”
“Do you own a food processor?” asked Sam.
“Of course,” Suzanne replied, reaching for a slice of molasses bread, the house specialty.
“How about a wire whisk and mandolin for slicing paper-thin potatoes and veggies?”
“Yes,” she said, spreading a thin layer of unsalted butter on her bread.
“Subscription to Food and Wine?”
Suzanne nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
“Then there’s no denying you’re a foodie,” said Sam. “Maybe you’re not a pilgrimage-to-Le Bernadin, quaff-the-Beaujolais-nouveau-foodie, but you’re right up there.”
“Could we please change the subject?” asked Suzanne.
“No,” said Sam. “I enjoy talking about food. It’s one of my passions, too. Of course, what I really prefer is eating it. Really good food, that is.”
Suzanne toyed with her salad fork, thinking about their gourmet dinner tomorrow night. Should she invite Sam? Would it be too soon to see him again? Would she appear too eager?
Bag those thoughts, she told herself. Do whatever the heck you feel like doing.
“You know,” she said to Sam, “the Cackleberry Club is hosting a gourmet winners dinner tomorrow night.”
“Winners,” said Sam.
“That’s right,” said Suzanne. “The winners of our cake-decorating contest will be there along with a few other folks who bought tickets.” She hesitated. “I don’t know if you already have plans, but I’d sure like it if you came.”
Sam dropped his chin into his hand and stared at her across the table. “Mmm, really? Tell me the menu.”
“Oh, now you’re being selective!”
“I’m curious,” he told her.
“Let’s see,” said Suzanne, feeling slightly flustered. “Well, our starter course is going to be salmon medallions with mustard sauce and dilled cucumber. Then Boston bib lettuce with walnut dressing and Maytag blue cheese. Squash soup with fennel and onion garnish. And fillet of beef with potato gratin.”
“That’s it?” said Sam.
“Dessert will be honey-poached pears with gingerbread and fresh-brewed espresso.”
Sam’s dark eyes stared intently at her.
Uh-oh, she thought. “So ... what do you think?”
“Are you kidding?” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t miss a dinner like that for anything! Thank you!”
That seemed to really break the ice, or what small chip was left of it. Sam had the grilled rib eye while Suzanne ordered the Muscovy duck. They ate, chatted, ate some more, drank wine, gabbed, and laughed. By the time dessert arrived, a cheese sampler accented with thin slices of Granny Smith green apples and a balsamic vinegar reduction, the candle in the center of their table had burned low, and the wine bottle was pretty much empty.
Sam pushed what was left of the Camembert toward Suzanne, drew a breath, then said, “I know that your husband passed away . . . what? . . . maybe six or seven months ago?”
Suzanne nodded. She figured the subject would rear its head sooner or later. How could it not?
“You seem very . . . pulled together,” said Sam. “Like you’re really charging ahead with your life.”
“You think so?” she asked.
He nodded. “Absolutely. Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting here with me.”
“You’re probably right,” said Suzanne. “No, you are right. But I want to tell you something, okay? A little story.”
Sam nodded. “Sure.”
“One rainy Tuesday night,” Suzanne began, “I was going through Walter’s top dresser drawer when I came across a lovely white shirt.” She gazed at Sam. “The shirt had never been worn. In fact,
it was still carefully swaddled in tissue paper.
Then I remembered that Walter had bought that shirt a couple of years earlier at a fancy shop on Michigan Avenue, when we’d driven up to see the Matisse show at the Chicago Art Institute. I’d ribbed him mercilessly about the price of the shirt and he’d taken it to heart. He was, obviously, saving the shirt for a special occasion.”
Sam continued to gaze at her, brows arched, not quite certain where she was going with this.
“So,” continued Suzanne, “I took the shirt from the dresser drawer and laid it next to the suit I was planning to take to the funeral home the next morning.”
Silence hung between them.
“Now I don’t wait for anything,” said Suzanne, in a quiet voice. “No more waiting for planets to align, the economy to rebound, or someone to hand me a blank check. And I particularly try not to worry about what others think. To be perfectly honest, I don’t much care what they’re thinking. Now I just try to push ahead and do my best to be optimistic, hopeful, and fearless.”
“Does it work?” asked Sam, reaching for her hand.
Suzanne smiled back at him. “Sometimes.”
Chapter twenty seven
By ten o’clock Saturday morning, it really did look as though the circus had arrived, pitched camp, and was operating in full force. Like mainsails from gigantic, oceangoing schooners, two shimmering white tents billowed heroically in the front parking lot of the Cackleberry Club. Riding the soft breeze were the mingled aromas of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, fresh-baked orange muffins, brown sugar scones, melted chocolate, fresh marzipan, and powdery confectioners’ sugar.
In the largest of the two tents, cake-decorating demonstrations had just gotten under way. Cece Bishop from the Culinary Arts Program at Darlington College and Jenny Probst from the Kindred Bakery had teamed up to demonstrate fondants and frostings. Cece had arrived with a three-tiered cake that was covered in vanilla icing and just waiting to be turned into a majestic art deco-inspired work of art.
Suzanne presided over the second tent. Jammed with tables she’d positioned in a large U-shape arrangement, gorgeous cake entries had been pouring in all morning. After wrestling with her choice of categories, Petra had finally settled upon four different cake-decorating divisions: wedding cakes, tiered cakes, sheet cakes, and sugar arts. This last division being the most popular and encompassing all sorts of imaginative designs from floral romps, to swans and swags, to pulled and blown sugar sculptures.
Much to Toni’s dismay, Petra had jettisoned her idea for a weird cake recipe contest. So no deep-fried tempura cakes, chocolate chili cakes, or potato pecan cakes. At least not this year.
Suzanne sat at the registration table, checking in cake entries and handing out name tags and programs. About fifteen cakes had come in so far, and she expected another thirty or so to arrive by their 2:00 P.M. cutoff time. She suspected that more than a few hopeful bakers were still struggling to perfect their fondant frills!
“So how was the big date?” Toni asked, sidling up next to her.
“Really nice,” said Suzanne, jotting a note to herself.
“Nice?” said Toni, looking slightly askance. “Nice is when somebody knits you a pair of argyle socks for your birthday.”
“Okay,” said Suzanne. “If you must know, I had a pretty terrific evening. It was fun, challenging, and even a teensy bit romantic.” She peered sideways at Toni. “There. I’ve spilled my guts. Happy?”
Toni clasped her hands together in a grand theatrical gesture. “Ah, sweet romance. I so adore hearing the details. Hugs, kisses ...”
“And that’s all I’m going to reveal for now,” cut in Suzanne. “This dating thing is brand-new territory for me.”
“Sounds like code for you’re planning to take it slow.”
“Absolutely I am,” said Suzanne. “Think snail speed. Or better yet... classier, yet... escargot speed.”
“No, no, no,” said Toni, dancing about and twirling a finger at her. “Bad idea. Romance is all about being wildly impetuous and crazy!”
“And spontaneous?” asked Suzanne, raising a single, quivering eyebrow. “Like you were with bad-boy Junior? Running off to the Cupid’s Kiss Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas and getting married by an Elvis impersonator?”
Toni wrinkled her nose and made a face. “We did have ‘Blue Hawaii’ playing in the background, but ... I see your point.” She sounded deflated. “And thanks so much for dropping me back to terra firma with such a resounding thud.”
“Truth hurts.” Suzanne laughed.
“Hey,” said Toni, perking up again. “Some of the cakes that have come in so far are really fantastic!” She pointed toward the table that held the sugar art cakes. “Did you see the one with the Faberge egg? And the one that looks like King Arthur’s castle?” She eyed the castle cake thoughtfully, like she wanted to take a nibble. “What would you say that was? A toffee drawbridge with peanut brittle parapets?”
“Looks like,” said Suzanne, shifting her gaze to a smiling woman who’d just placed a pink-and-white five-tiered wedding cake in front of her, replete with fondant hearts and flying doves.
“Yum,” joked Toni. “I’d like to storm that castle.”
Suzanne left Toni to handle cake entries, while she hurried into the other tent to check on demos. Jenny was hand painting a fondant orchid, while Cece was piping silver icing. Excellent. So ... now to check on Petra.
“Sharon just called and cancelled,” said Petra, when Suzanne walked into the kitchen.
“Oh no,” said Suzanne. Sharon was one of their judges. “Now we’ll have to tap somebody else.”
“Well, think about it sooner than later,” said Petra. “Cause I’m going berserk here with everything else.”
“Okay, okay,” said Suzanne, thinking she’d better get back outside.
Petra poured olive oil into a mixing bowl that already held egg yolks and powdered mustard. “Any word on your buddy, Dil?” she asked. When she’d found out Dil had wandered away yesterday, she’d been particularly saddened.
Suzanne shook her head. “No, and I don’t expect there’s going to be any. Dil’s gone. Slipped down a couple of alleys and hightailed it out of town.”
“You never know,” said Petra. “He could turn up again.”
“I don’t think so,” said Suzanne. “I have the feeling he’s gone for good.”
“Pity,” said Petra. “Maybe we could have helped him.”
“And I have this niggling feeling,” said Suzanne, “that just maybe he saw something last Sunday that could have shed some light on two very gruesome murders.” A wave of guilt surged through her. Should she have driven Dil directly to the law enforcement center and let Doogie question him? Or would her actions simply have pushed Dil over the edge?
“Now we’ll never know,” said Petra. She wiped her hands on a towel, then paused for a few moments to consider her next words. “Unless, of course, you talk to Doogie and ask him to put out some sort of police bulletin. That way law enforcement could ... I don’t know ... pick him up in the next county or something?”
“I hear you,” Suzanne said, glumly. “And I’ve been thinking that exact same thing.”
“What you have to balance,” said Petra, “is whether finding your guy might help solve two murders or just screw him up even more.”
“I don’t have the answer to that,” said Suzanne. “Nobody does.”
“Just noodle the whole thing around,” urged Petra. “You’ll figure out what’s right. You always do.”
“Then you have more faith in my judgment than I do,” said Suzanne.
“Look at it this way,” said Petra, “everything we grew up trusting—banks, our government, the financial market, big corporations—have let us down in recent months. So . . . do I believe, in my heart of hearts, that the three of us will always try to do what’s right? You bet I do!”
“Thank you for reminding me to keep the faith,” said Suzanne. She picked up two coffeepot
s, ready to bump through the swinging door into the cafe, when a sharp rap sounded at the back door. She turned and saw a wavering shadow looming on the other side of the screen door.
“Holy Toledo,” muttered Petra. “That’s probably Bill Crowley with a couple crates of eggs.” She shook her head and frowned at the crates of lettuce, boxes of tomatoes, and various and sundry ingredients that were already strewn everywhere. All stuff for tonight’s gourmet dinner. “It’s a mess back here. And the cooler’s jammed. What are we gonna do with the darn things?”
Suzanne dropped her coffeepots onto the wooden counter and said, “I’ll take care of this.” She scurried to the back door, said, “Bill, is there any way you can . . . ?” Then stopped. Because it wasn’t Bill who was hovering on the other side of the door.
