by Laura Childs
Clenching her jaw, Suzanne studied the farmhouse and worried. Was Mike’s wife, Claudia, at home? Did she need help? Was somebody inside with her right now, holding a butcher knife to her throat?
Slowly, cautiously, as if she were picking her way across a bed of hot coals, Suzanne walked to the house. She climbed the three creaking stairs that led to the small back porch and stared at the screen door.
Now what? Well . . . maybe just pound on the door and see if Claudia’s in there.
Suzanne knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. She knocked again, a little harder this time, causing the door to rattle in its frame. It terrified her to think that Claudia might be lying on the kitchen floor, facedown in a pool of her own blood.
That single, horrifying thought compelled her to take action. She reached down, turned the doorknob, and gingerly pulled the door open a tentative couple of inches.
“Claudia,” Suzanne called out. “Are you in here?” She waited, hearing nothing but the pounding of her own heart and the rush of blood churning in her ears. She called out again. “Claudia?” Then, feeling a little bolder, said, “Anybody home?”
Opening the door wider, Suzanne gazed into the Mullen’s tidy little farm kitchen. She saw a silver coffeepot sitting on the Hotpoint range, a plate and coffee cup resting next to the sink. Nothing looked out of order. And yet . . .
Her curiosity amped to a frantic level, Suzanne was about to step inside the kitchen. Then she checked herself. No, don’t do this, she decided. Don’t risk it.
She backed away and closed the screen door soundlessly. Feeling nervous and edgy, she knew she’d completely overstepped her boundaries. This was so not a good idea, she admonished herself as she hurried back to her car. She should have followed Marilyn’s instructions—and Sam’s—right to the letter.
With one hand resting on the handle of her car door, Suzanne paused and looked around once more. Nothing felt out of place. And yet . . . everything had changed. Mike was dead. The cows were frantic. And she was standing here, gazing around as if it were any old stupid Tuesday on a sunny October morning.
No, Suzanne told herself, what she was really doing was looking around, studying the area, to see if there was some kind of clue or takeaway. After all, she’d been the first one to stumble upon the crime scene.
Correction, I’m actually not the first one. Those honors would go to Mike’s killer.
Beyond the dairy barn, a stand of trees was aflame in red, gold, and amber. The sky was a rich blue, that pure, unfiltered blue that materializes only on rare autumn days when the atmosphere throbs with electricity and it seems like you can peer all the way up to the very edge of outer space.
Suzanne knew she’d better drive herself out to the main road immediately. The sheriff and his deputies would be roaring in any second and . . . wait a minute. She blinked. What was that?
Her eyes had caught a brief hint of movement way off in the distance. What was it exactly? A tree branch swaying in the wind? She scanned the distance, trying to pull it all into tighter focus. No, it looked almost like someone’s head and shoulders. Was that a person standing way out there in the woods? No, now there wasn’t any movement at all, so it must be some kind of scarecrow.
Suzanne glanced away, already making up her mind that it was a scarecrow devised to scare off scavenging birds. Then she hesitated.
Wait a minute. A scarecrow in a cow pasture?
Something about that scenario didn’t quite compute. She looked down at her toes, frowned, and then glanced back up, deciding it might be worth her while to take a second, more careful look. But the figure had disappeared. It was gone, just like that. Poof.
Then the high, piercing scream of a police siren rent the air. Law enforcement was rolling toward her fast, running at top speed. And layered on top of the cruiser’s screaming siren was the telltale whoop whoop of an ambulance chasing along in its wake.
Suzanne gazed down the long driveway, where the two vehicles suddenly steamed toward her. Then all hell broke loose as a maroon and tan sheriff’s car roared into the farmyard and slewed to a stop, its tires spitting gravel like Pop Rocks. The ambulance charged in right behind it.
Suzanne immediately recognized Deputy Eddie Driscoll as he jumped from the cruiser. He was tall and lanky, late thirties, with a slightly receding hairline. This was the first time Suzanne had ever seen him move with such urgency and speed.
“Mike’s in the barn,” Suzanne cried, pointing toward the gaping opening in the dairy barn. “Back in his cheese workshop.” She drew in a quick breath. “Dead, I think.”
“Are you hurt?” Driscoll asked.
Suzanne shook her head. “Not me. Why?”
Driscoll pointed to her slacks. Suzanne looked down and saw a smear of blood.
She grimaced. “That’s Mike’s blood. Please hurry!”
Deputy Driscoll placed a hand on his still-holstered gun and rushed past her. Two EMTs followed some twenty feet behind him, moving at a slower pace since they were also hauling along their med kit and a clanking gurney.
They all disappeared inside the barn and Suzanne thought, Why am I standing here like a bump on a log? And followed them in.
The cows were bellowing again and stomping their hooves in protest, frightened once more by the appearance of strangers and the strange metal clanking thing they dragged with them. Their necks strained outward as Suzanne rushed past, their eyes rolled wildly, lips slicked back over long bovine teeth.
“Can you . . .” Suzanne slid to an ungainly stop just inches from a stunned Deputy Driscoll. “Can you tell what happened?”
Deputy Driscoll and Dick Sparrow, one of the EMTs, were standing over Mullen. Sparrow had just completed a quick life check; Driscoll was simply observing as his hand rested on his weapon.
“He’s really dead?” Suzanne asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Sparrow said.
Driscoll looked horrified. “There’s so much blood.”
“He’s been stabbed,” Sparrow said. “Slashed repeatedly.”
“How long has he been dead?” Suzanne asked. She wondered if she’d just missed seeing Mike’s killer.
“Hard to tell,” said the other EMT, a young redheaded kid whose name tag said Rickman.
Sparrow grimaced. “Certainly not very long. It doesn’t look as if rigor mortis has even begun to set in.”
“Do you know . . . ?” Driscoll began. But Sparrow just shook his head.
The beat of heavy footsteps caused Suzanne, and everyone else, to turn. And there, lumbering directly toward them, was Sheriff Roy Doogie. His khaki bulk was silhouetted against the open door for just a moment, giving the impression of a large indomitable object, and then the sheriff strode with authority into their circle.
“What have we got?” Doogie growled. His gray, rattlesnake eyes shone brightly in his meaty face as he absorbed the entire crime scene in about two seconds flat. He slid his Smokey Bear hat off his head and touched a hand to his sparse cap of gray hair. “Mike,” he said. “What a pity.” He glared at Dick Sparrow. “What can you tell me? Anything?”
“Wrongful death,” Sparrow said.
“Who found him?” Doogie asked.
It was Suzanne’s turn to speak up. “I did.”
Doogie turned and eyed her suspiciously. “What were you doing out here?”
“Picking up cheese.”
“Did you see what happened?”
Suzanne shook her head. “No.” She lifted a hand. “He was like this when I got here.”
There was more loud trumpeting from the cows and they all turned to see what was causing the ruckus.
Sam, Suzanne murmured under her breath as she caught sight of him. She was relieved that he’d gotten here so quickly.
Dr. Sam Hazelet had indeed arrived. Late thirties, devastating smile, handsome with dark curly hair. He
re was everything a girl could possibly want. Except, of course, for the bloody blue murder scene.
“Suzanne?” Sam asked, concern clouding his face as he rushed to join them. “Are you all right?” He grabbed both her shoulders and spun her toward him.
“She’s fine,” Doogie said.
“I’m fine,” Suzanne said.
“She’s a witness,” Doogie added.
Sam’s look of concern deepened. “You saw what happened here?” He sounded stunned. “That’s not the story you gave me.”
“No,” Suzanne said. “I didn’t really see anything. I just . . . I found Mike like this.”
Sam seemed to accept this simpler version and turned his attention to Mike Mullen’s remains. He knelt down on one knee and did a hasty assessment. “Nasty,” he said. “Obviously, there’s no need to transport him at this point.” He was grim faced but his demeanor remained cool and professional.
Sheriff Doogie swiped at his brow. There was a thin film of perspiration on his forehead even though the temperature was in the low sixties. “How do you think he died?” he asked. Doogie was big on clarification.
“At first glance, I’d say he bled out,” Sam said. “Although it’s possible his heart gave out or his respiration was severely compromised.”
“Any guess on what he was attacked with?” Suzanne asked. “I mean, he’s all cut up and there’s so much blood . . .”
Sam was just about to answer when Doogie gave a quick frown and made a silencing motion with his hand. “We don’t need to go into the precise circumstances of death right now,” he warned. “First things first—we need to process the scene.”
“And notify next of kin,” Sam said.
“That would be Claudia,” Suzanne said. “But I don’t think she’s home.”
Doogie turned and drilled her with flat, inquisitive eyes. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
Suzanne shrugged. “That she’s not home?”
“Because you already checked.”
Suzanne bit her lip. “Well, yes, I kind of did. I knocked on the back door and . . .”
“Suzanne.” Sam grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away from the group. “You can go into all that later. Right now Sheriff Doogie has to focus on his investigation.”
“If there’s an investigation, then it means there was foul play,” Suzanne said. Her voice sounded slightly shrill in the cavernous barn. She glanced down the length of the barn and out the barn door, where another deputy was stringing up a flutter of black and yellow plastic tape that said SHERIFF DEPT—DO NOT CROSS. She wondered exactly who they were trying to keep out. Wasn’t this like shutting the proverbial barn door after the . . . killer?
Doogie’s eyes flashed Suzanne a warning look. “Suzanne, don’t be getting in my way here. We need to take pictures and go over the scene. Then there has to be an autopsy and . . .” He glanced at Sam and said, “Oh hell, she’s gonna worm everything out of you anyway, isn’t she? I mean, the two of you are engaged.”
Sam just raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” Doogie said. “That’s what I thought.” He turned to Deputy Driscoll and said, “Eddie, grab the camera out of my trunk, will you? And you may as well haul in the rest of that gear the state crime lab sent us.” He gazed down at Mullen and sighed deeply. “We’d best get this investigation rolling.”
CHAPTER 3
BY the time Suzanne arrived back at the Cackleberry Club, the lunch rush had petered out. Petra was rattling around in the kitchen, baking a couple pans of her trademark peanut butter scones. Toni was dawdling out in the café, flirting with the male customers and ringing up tabs on an old-fashioned brass cash register. Even though she was a shade past forty, Toni still considered herself the resident hoochie momma. Not quite divorced from Junior Garret, she favored big hair, push-up bras, skintight cowgirl shirts, and even tighter jeans. Today, she’d clipped an extra fluff of genuine Dynel hair to her ponytail and wore an eye-popping red satin shirt with heart-shaped pearl buttons.
Toni’s face lit up when she saw Suzanne bounce through the front door. “Hey, Suzanne.” Then, when she noticed Suzanne’s slightly grim expression, she hurried over and said, “What’s wrong, Suzy-Q?”
“Everything,” Suzanne said. She hooked a thumb toward the kitchen and said. “We need to have a board of directors meeting.”
Toni’s brows rose in twin arcs. “Uh-oh, sounds serious.”
“You got that right.” Suzanne pushed open the swinging door and the two of them trooped into the café’s kitchen, where pots bubbled, pans of chicken breasts sizzled, and they were greeted with a multitude of delightful aromas.
“My peanut butter scones are gangbusters,” Petra sang out when she saw them. “And it’s all because I used that organic . . .” She glanced over her shoulder, caught the serious look on Suzanne’s face, and did a fast double take. “Suzanne, why the lemon face?”
“We have a slight problem,” Suzanne said.
“I’m guessing it’s probably not all that slight,” Toni said, crowding in behind her.
With Toni and Petra gazing at her expectantly, Suzanne gave them a straight-ahead blow-by-blow description of her terrible discovery. No sugarcoating here—save it for the glazed donuts.
Toni’s hand crept up to cover her mouth. “Mike Mullen is dead? Our Mike Mullen? Dear Lord.”
“No,” Petra cried in a high, strangled voice. “Mike can’t be dead.” She clutched her hands together as if in prayer. “I mean . . . he and Claudia go to my church.” Petra was a big-boned Scandinavian lady with a broad, open face and a cap of short, curly gray hair. Blessed with a can-do, no-nonsense attitude, not many things upset her. But right now she was knocked for a loop. “He was really murdered?” she whispered, as if saying the words out loud was almost too painful. “Just like you said?”
“I’m afraid so,” Suzanne said.
“Oh, poor Claudia.” Petra dug a hankie from the pocket of her blue-checkered apron and dabbed at her reddening eyes. “How did she take the news? I bet she was completely devastated.”
“She doesn’t know yet,” Suzanne said. “She wasn’t home when all this happened.”
“Where is she?” Toni asked.
“I don’t know,” Suzanne said.
Petra’s eyes went round with fear. “Do you think Claudia was abducted?”
Suzanne grimaced. That idea had never occurred to her. “Probably not.” I hope not. “I’m sure that Claudia’s . . . somewhere safe.”
“Is Doogie trying to locate her?” Toni asked. “So he can deliver the bad news?”
“I would think so,” Suzanne said. “It’s part of his job, after all.”
“Let’s hope Claudia doesn’t have to hear the news from strangers,” Petra said. She shook her head, still very upset. “What’s the world coming to? Mike Mullen was always such a sweet, gentle guy. He was a deacon at our church, for goodness’ sake. The man didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Clearly he had at least one,” Suzanne said.
Toni frowned. “You’re positive Mike was murdered?”
“Pretty sure,” Suzanne said.
“How do you know it wasn’t some terrible farm accident?” Toni asked. “Some kind of malfunction with machinery? Or he could have tripped on a piece of equipment and fallen in his barn, cracked his poor head wide open.”
“Trust me,” Suzanne said. “Mike met with a very violent end. Like I said, there was a lot of blood.”
Toni still wasn’t satisfied. “So you mean Mike was brutally clubbed? Or stabbed with a knife?”
Petra let loose a shiver along with a muffled sob.
“I would say stabbed . . . yes,” Suzanne said. “With a really large knife.”
Toni wrinkled her nose and thought for a few moments. She’d gone from shocked to curious. “You mean like one of those
scary, serrated combat knives? Or was it a kitchen knife?”
Suzanne threw up her hands. “I don’t know, Toni. There was blood all over the place, okay? The man was stabbed, his clothes were shredded. It was an awful mess.”
“Please stop,” Petra said. “I can’t bear to hear one more gory detail.” When the timer on the stove dinged, she just stared blankly ahead, lost in thought. Suzanne grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the last two pans of scones from the oven.
“I’m sorry to break this news so bluntly,” Suzanne said as she dropped the pans on the counter. “Sorry to have upset you both.”
“But who . . . who would want to hurt Mike?” Petra asked. “I mean, he was this sweet dairy farmer who loved his cows. He gave them names like Birgit and Dahlia, for goodness’ sake.”
“Yeah,” Toni said. “Who could’ve possibly had a vendetta against him?”
Suzanne drew a deep breath. When something like this—a murder—took place in a small community, it was bound to shake everyone to the core. And Toni and Petra were quite right. Mike had been a good, solid guy. He sold his milk to the County Cooperative for whatever the fair-market price was and made tasty wheels of cheese on the side. What had he done to cross someone? What did he do to deserve being butchered in his own barn?
Suzanne pulled herself away from her dark thoughts, clenched her hand into a fist, and brought it down hard against the butcher-block counter. She was suddenly aware that Toni and Petra were staring at her with shocked expressions on their faces. “What?” she said.
“Are you going to”—Toni made a whirring motion with her hand—“do something?”
“Me?” Suzanne said with a high-pitched squeak.
“Yes, you,” Petra said. She adjusted her apron and pulled herself up to her full height. “Next to Sheriff Doogie, you’re the one with all the smarts in this town.”
“Thank you,” Suzanne said. “I think. But where exactly are you going with this unwarranted flattery?”
