by Laura Childs
But tonight the gossip wasn’t all that fun.
“Two men were arrested in a methamphetamine raid,” the announcer barked out. “In a hastily called press conference, Sheriff Burney of Deer County called his findings the possible tip of the iceberg.”
Suzanne snapped off the radio. That kind of news she didn’t need, especially after such an unsettling morning. It had taken her the better part of the afternoon to ease into a more relaxed frame of mind. Of course, she was still burning with curiosity over the circumstances of Mike Mullen’s death. It seemed like something out of a contemporary thriller. A brutal murder. No witnesses. No clues. No known motive. The only concrete thing so far was Sheriff Doogie’s speculation about a machete.
“Woof.” Baxter, Suzanne’s aging Irish setter pointed his silvered muzzle at the front door. Scruff, a Heinz 57 dog that Suzanne had found wandering down a lonely country road, hurried to join him.
There was a sharp knock, then the door clicked open and Sam came bounding in. “Anybody home?” he called out.
That was all Baxter and Scruff needed. They spun around Sam like a furry maelstrom, sniffing, nuzzling, toenails clicking against the tiled entry, making happy little dog grunts.
Suzanne met Sam at the door. “It’s good to be appreciated, huh?” she asked. And she loved that he looked so casually elegant in a brown leather jacket and faded blue jeans.
Sam put his arms around her and pulled her close. “It sure is.” They kissed and Suzanne felt herself melting in his arms. It wouldn’t take much for Sam to sweep her off her feet and carry her upstairs. Let the lamb burn to a crisp, the potatoes wither. She wouldn’t care.
On the other hand, she did want to ask Sam some rather specific questions about Mike Mullen’s injuries. So a well-prepared dinner would make for a mean bargaining chip.
From behind his back Sam produced a bottle of red wine. “I figured a nice glass of Barolo would put us in the mood.”
Suzanne accepted the bottle and smiled. She was already in the mood.
When the lamb and potatoes were ready, Suzanne put everything on a large platter and carried it to the table. The couple nibbled their salads, sipped wine, and helped themselves to the main entrée.
“Nothing like meat and potatoes,” Sam said. “Of course, this isn’t exactly your garden-variety meat and potatoes.” He grinned. “I can’t believe I’m marrying a gourmet cook. Lucky me.”
“Maybe I should have served something more pedestrian. Like burgers and fries.”
Sam was quick to counter. “No, no, this is great. Better than great.”
“So,” Suzanne said. “Are you going to tell me about the autopsy?”
Sam set down his fork and made an unhappy face. “Suzanne, really?”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Yes, really. I need to know about this, Sam. I’m the one who found Mike Mullen’s body, remember?”
“Well, you’re out of luck,” he said. “Because I’m not the one who’s going to perform the autopsy. Sheriff Doogie has decided to bring in an outside medical examiner.”
“Interesting.”
“Not really. It’s always better to have an expert. Especially in a case like this.”
“You mean a case of murder.”
“That’s right.” Sam picked up the wine bottle and refilled their glasses.
“But his body was transported to the hospital morgue, right? Can I at least ask you a couple of probing questions?”
“You can probe all you want. I endured four years of medical school, two years as an intern, and another two as a resident. Discussing blood, death, and dismemberment doesn’t bother me.” He jabbed his fork at his medium-rare chop. “This is wonderful.”
Suzanne persisted. “Doogie said the weapon could have been a machete.”
“The murder weapon?” Sam helped himself to another scoop of herbed potatoes. “I suppose a machete is a distinct possibility. We’ll know a lot more after the ME does his analysis of the cut marks, depth of wounds, that sort of thing.”
But Suzanne was beginning to feel a tingle of excitement. Truth be told, she wanted to get on with the hunt. “Where would you even get a machete?”
“I don’t know. Army surplus store? Buy one on the Internet? Maybe somebody found a relic left over from the Korean War?”
Suzanne thought for a few moments. “There’s an army surplus store out on the edge of town. I heard they carry all sorts of old uniforms and military patches. It might be smart if Doogie checked there.”
Sam dangled a scrap of meat for Baxter, who immediately snapped it up in his jaws. “And maybe you should leave well enough alone and let Doogie do his job.”
“Still,” she said. “It’s interesting.”
Sam reached over and caught her hand, gave it a squeeze. “Suzanne, I want you to walk away from this.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Sure you can. You just . . . make up your mind to forget about it. Look, I know it’s tempting to want to stick your nose into official police business. Especially after you stumbled upon the brutal murder of a friend. But Sheriff Doogie is a trained investigator. You’re not.”
“I do have some experience,” she said with a touch a pride. “Remember the fire and Hannah’s death a couple of months ago?”
“What I remember most,” Sam said, “is that you got yourself into a load of trouble.” His face pulled into a look of concern. “And I almost lost you.”
“But I helped solve that case.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can just waltz into something like this.” Now Sam’s blue eyes shone with warmth and love. “Please, just try to let it go.”
“Hmm,” she said in a noncommittal tone as she stood up to clear away the dishes.
When Suzanne walked into the living room a few minutes later, Sam had dimmed the lights and put on music. He reached out and grabbed her hand, pulled her close. They slow-danced, cheek to cheek, while Sam Smith crooned out “Stay With Me.” It should have been a romantic, magical moment, everything a girl could want. But Suzanne was still thinking about the murder.
“We have plans to make,” Sam said when the song ended. He kissed her on the nose and led her to the sofa. Then he pulled out a pen and a small leather-bound notebook, obviously ready to jot a few pertinent notes.
“Big plans,” Suzanne agreed, though she was still deep in thought. Her brain was working overtime, whirring crazy thoughts about Mike Mullen, the scarecrow she’d seen, and the terrible injuries Mike had sustained. Didn’t the police have a term for massive injuries like that? Wasn’t it known as overkill, when a body had been worked over way beyond the point necessary to cause death?
Sam clicked his pen. “Have you given any thought as to when and where we should get married?”
Suzanne blinked. “Um . . . what?”
He gazed at her. “Any thoughts on timing?”
Suzanne straightened up. “Oh sure. I was thinking next spring. A May wedding. We could maybe even have it outdoors.”
Sam grinned. “I love that idea. You see, I knew there was a reason I asked you to marry me. You’re thinking apple blossoms and green grass and maybe even a bower covered in flowers, aren’t you?”
Suzanne hadn’t been thinking about any of those things, but she said, “That’s it exactly.”
“Then let’s try to nail down some specifics. What about Founder’s Park? Or maybe that picnic grove out by Catawba Creek?”
“Those are all great options,” Suzanne said, stalling.
“Or should we throw caution to the wind and have our wedding out in the country somewhere? I’m thinking rolling hills, lots of trees . . .”
“Romantic,” Suzanne whispered.
“So what do you think? Let’s try to sketch out a plan.”
“You mean . . . now?” She was having trouble wrapping
her head around this whole wedding thing.
“Am I putting too much pressure on you?”
She nodded. “Maybe a little.”
“Sweetheart, it’s only because I’m in love. And I’m excited about marrying you.”
“Oh, Sam.” She bit her lip. She felt awful, her mind was a million miles away. He deserved better than this.
“What do you think about Kopell’s over in Cornucopia for our wedding reception? That’s a fairly cozy restaurant, and the brass and wood and big stone fireplace give it a schlosslike vibe.”
She smiled back at him.
Sam’s smile slipped. “Suzanne? Earth to Suzanne?”
“I’m with you.”
“No, you’re not,” Sam said. He sounded profoundly disappointed. “You’re a million miles away.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I really am.”
He snapped his notebook shut. “We’re not going to do this tonight. I should have known better. You’re still . . . your head is still in that dairy barn, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she whispered. She put a hand on his arm. “Please, I need to know a little bit more.”
He let out a deep sigh. “Such as?”
“The attack against Mike must have been fierce, almost frantic. So the killer had to have sustained some injuries of his own.”
Sam’s nod was imperceptible. “It’s a possibility.”
Suzanne continued. “Did anyone come into the hospital or clinic today with unexplained injuries? What you’d call defensive wounds?”
“Not that I know of. And Doogie did put the word out, especially to all the ER personnel.” Sam narrowed his eyes at her and said, “What else do you want to know?”
“Has there been any guess made as to time of death?”
“Certainly not more than an hour earlier than the time you showed up.”
“So I just missed the killer.”
“Looks like.” Sam didn’t seem happy.
“And the wounds . . .”
“Deep, slashing cuts. The lungs and heart sustained significant damage. Clearly there was a good deal of arterial spray.” He gave her a cool smile. “There, are you happy now?”
“Not really.”
“Look, I know how important this investigation is to you, Suzanne. But do you think you could clock out of it just for a while?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Do it for me?”
“I’ll try. I really will.”
Sam touched a hand to her face, then brushed back a strand of her hair. “You know how much I love you, don’t you? I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“I love you, too, Sam.”
Suzanne rested her head on his shoulder and listened to the soft music that was still playing. Yet, when she closed her eyes, she couldn’t shake the image of Mike Mullen’s pale white face as he lay dead in the barn. She couldn’t escape the sounds of bellowing, outraged cattle as they expressed their sorrow in the only way they knew how.
Yes, she could try to shelve her worries for now and enjoy the rest of her evening with Sam. But in her heart, Suzanne had already come to terms with one critical fact.
She was already deeply involved.
CHAPTER 5
STRIPS of turkey bacon sizzled on the grill, teakettles chirped and burped, and the aroma of apple bread and muffins (cinnamon, chocolate chip, and bran) perfumed the air in the Cackleberry Club’s kitchen. It was Wednesday morning and they’d been open only twenty minutes, but the joint was seriously jumping.
Petra cracked eggs, flipped pancakes, and gave her scrambled eggs an occasional shuffle. Her hands worked so quickly and efficiently that she looked like a magician doing sleight of hand. Her feet, encased in bright green Crocs, did a little happy dance as she hummed along to a classic rock station playing on her old Philco radio.
Out in the café, Suzanne and Toni were taking orders, pouring refills on piping hot coffee and tea, and delivering breakfast entrées along with a dollop of sass.
As Toni slid past Suzanne, a large silver tray balanced against her hip, she said, “In case you haven’t noticed, girlfriend, this place has gone plumb loco today.”
Suzanne nodded. “I’m afraid all our customers are gossiping like crazy about Mike Mullen’s murder. I can’t tell you how many weird stories and rumors are swirling in the air.”
“The Cackleberry Club has become rumor central,” Toni said.
Even mild-mannered Todd Lansky, who had stopped by for breakfast before going on his milk route, jumped into the fray. “What do you hear, Suzanne?” he asked as he peered slyly at her from a table by the window. “I mean about yesterday’s murder?”
“Not much,” Suzanne said. She pulled out her pen and order pad and fixed him with a neutral smile. “What can I get for you this morning? How about a nice Italian sausage scramble or one of Petra’s heart-healthy veggie omelets?”
Lansky held up a hand. “I’ll just take coffee and one of your sticky rolls, Suzanne.”
“That’s it? You’re looking awfully thin.”
“Just watching my weight.” Lansky patted his stomach, which Suzanne figured had to be washboard flat beneath his red plaid shirt.
“I’m watching mine, too,” Toni called out as she breezed by. “Not doing anything about it, just watching it.”
“Has Sheriff Doogie said anything to you about possible suspects?” Lansky asked.
“No, Todd,” Suzanne said, her frustration beginning to boil up. He had to be the tenth or eleventh person who’d quizzed her about possible suspects. “Doogie hasn’t mentioned a word to me.” Actually, he’d been fairly forthcoming with her yesterday, but Suzanne wasn’t about to share that with the general populace. Doogie had a class A murder investigation on his hands and there was no way she wanted to compromise it. Of course, truth be known, her curiosity was raging at a fever pitch and she was itching to dive into the investigation herself!
“Orders are up,” Petra called out loudly through the pass-through.
Suzanne spun toward the kitchen, kicked the door open with one foot, and squirted through. “How are you doing?” she asked Petra. “Do you need any help?”
Petra turned and gave a wide-eyed, slightly frazzled expression. “I think I might. I’m spinning like a rotisserie chicken in here.”
“Just tell me what to do.”
Petra jerked her chin toward a half-dozen white china plates that were spread out across the butcher-block counter. “Those all need to be prepped for French toast orders.”
“Got it,” Suzanne said. She quickly arranged fresh-sliced strawberry garnishes on each plate, then added a few pats of butter along with small ramekins of warm maple syrup.
“Perfect,” Petra said. She grabbed her pancake flipper and stacked four pieces of French toast on each plate, as smoothly and efficiently as if she were dealing blackjack in a Vegas casino.
“Hey,” Toni said as she swooped into the kitchen. “Have you got those French toast . . .” She skidded to a stop. “Orders. Yeah, I guess you do.”
“Help me deliver them, okay?” Suzanne asked. Then she and Toni each grabbed three plates and hustled them out to their waiting customers.
* * *
BY mid-morning, things had settled down to a dull roar. Customers were leisurely sipping second and third cups of coffee, breakfast orders had slowed to a trickle, and Petra had finished her baking and even found time to decorate a three-layer cake. Because of Petra’s prodigious skills as a baker and cake decorator, custom cake orders were on the rise at the Cackleberry Club. And while the profit margin for selling a fancy birthday or anniversary cake certainly wasn’t as good as selling a Cadillac Escalade, every dollar they earned helped to fluff the bottom line. As Suzanne liked to point out, there was a vast difference between making a living and making a profit.
“You know what?” Suzanne sa
id as Petra squeezed out a final pink fondant rosette on the top of her cake. “I’m going to pack up a basket of muffins and take it out to Claudia Mullen.”
“That’s sweet of you,” Petra said. She glanced sideways at Suzanne and arched an eyebrow. “Or is that really sweet of you?”
Suzanne shrugged. Petra was always keen at figuring out people’s motivations. “Well, I did kind of want to ask Claudia a few questions.”
“I thought you might have an ulterior motive. So you’re definitely getting involved in the investigation?”
“I think I’m already involved,” Suzanne said.
Petra gazed at her. “Well . . . I think that’s good. I think you can offer a certain perspective.”
“Because I was there? Because I found him?”
“There’s that. And because you possess an insatiable curiosity, you’re good at asking the right questions.”
“I sure wasn’t last night,” Suzanne said, recalling her evening with Sam. “I think I blew it with Sam. Got a little too nosy.”
Petra put a hand on her hip. “Then just be a lot more careful, Suzanne. Because sometimes you can be a trifle overzealous. Which lands you—kersplat—in deep trouble.” She waggled an index finger. “No judgment here. I’m just offering a word to the wise.”
“Okay, I get that. Now do we have enough muffins for me to take to Claudia or what?”
“I can let you have four bran muffins and four chocolate chip muffins. How would that be?”
“Probably a nice balance between healthy eating and outright decadence,” Suzanne said. She grabbed a wicker basket out of the back room, lined it with a red-and-white-checkered napkin, and began stacking in muffins.
“As long as you’re going to run out there,” Petra said, “could you make a quick stop at the bank and deliver my cake?”
“Sure. Is it someone’s birthday?”
“I think they’re having some kind of customer appreciation day,” Petra said.
“So people will appreciate their car loans and mortgages a little more?”
