by Laura Childs
Petra shrugged. “I guess it all goes back to a tight economy.” Then, “Let me box up this cake so it gets there in one piece.”
* * *
SUZANNE dropped off Petra’s cake at Millennium Bank and then, because she found herself on the far edge of town, out by the new Robinette Shopping Center, decided to take a different route to Mike Mullen’s farm.
This alternate route wound past a bunch of newly constructed townhomes. But instead of looking charming, like a block of English row houses, they managed to look slightly tacky and low budget. The current building boom was the unfortunate result of real estate developers having discovered a cute little community (Kindred!) that was surrounded by woods, bluffs, and any number of burbling trout streams. They’d snatched up the land, thrown up townhomes and twin homes, and advertised like crazy. New home buyers, lured by the affordable prices, also fell in love with the gorgeous views and snapped up the houses. Veni, vidi, vista. Or maybe, if too many town houses were stacked one on top of the other, it would be hasta la vista vista.
Suzanne drove past the cutoff that led to the cemetery, past a City Works Garage that had a dump truck and a road grader parked in front, and finally past a gravel pit that was in the throes of being shut down. Another mile out of town and the scenery got a whole lot prettier. She wound her way past Morgan’s Apple Orchard, where rows of carefully pruned apple trees stretched off toward a dip in the horizon, and then passed a couple of farms. One of the farms had a hand-lettered sign set out near the road that said Pumpkins for Sale, and Suzanne reminded herself that Junior Garrett, Toni’s soon-to-be ex-husband, had been tasked with picking up a bushel basket full of gourds and pumpkins to use as decorations at the Cackleberry Club. She wondered if Junior’s Budweiser-chugging, stock car–addled brain would remember to do that little chore.
Four miles on, just before Suzanne hit the turnoff for Country Trail, she spotted eight straggly-looking horses standing in a small corral. Their heads were down, their hip bones jutted out a little too prominently, and the horses looked just generally tired and run-down.
Suzanne slowed her car as her heart immediately went out to them. She was a lifelong horse lover. In fact, her own horse, Mocha Gent, and his buddy, a mule named Grommet, lived at the farm she owned just across the field from the Cackleberry Club. She and her husband, Walter, who’d passed away several years ago, had purchased the farm as an investment.
“I wonder who owns these horses,” she murmured. And resolved to find out exactly who was responsible for their care and feeding. Or lack of feeding.
Five minutes later, Suzanne pulled into the Mullen farm. It was another gorgeous October day, sun shining down, golden leaves drifting on crosscurrents. Except today it felt like a slight pall hung over the place.
A sheriff’s car was parked directly outside the dairy barn, and, when she rolled up next to it, Deputy Driscoll stretched his legs and got out.
“Hey there, Suzanne,” Driscoll said. He groaned as he tilted his head to one side and wiggled his shoulders. He’d obviously been assigned guard duty though there wasn’t much to guard.
Suzanne lifted her basket of muffins for Driscoll to see. “I brought a gift for Claudia. Is she home?”
Driscoll nodded. “She’s up at the house.”
“How’s she doing?” Suzanne wondered if anyone had bothered to clean up all the blood in the barn yet.
“I’d say she’s still kinda weepy.” Driscoll held up a ceramic mug filled with coffee. “Though she did take the time to brew up a nice strong French roast.”
Suzanne walked up to the house, climbed the steps that led to the back door, and knocked. Fifteen seconds later, Claudia appeared at the back door.
“Oh my goodness,” Claudia exclaimed and let Suzanne in.
Suzanne handed her the basket of muffins. “I’m so very sorry for your loss,” she said. “Everyone at the Cackleberry Club sends their condolences.”
“Kind of you,” Claudia said as she accepted the basket. She was wearing khaki slacks and a pink sweatshirt that said I’m a 4H Grandma. Her gray hair was short and tousled, she wore not a speck of makeup, and her eyes were red and pinched as though she’d been crying. Which she probably had.
Claudia cleared her throat and, in a slightly quavering voice, said, “Could I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“That would be nice,” Suzanne said. As she seated herself at the big wooden kitchen table, she was secretly delighted that Claudia had offered coffee. This would give her an opportunity to ask a few questions that had been percolating in her brain.
But just as Suzanne accepted her cup of coffee, just as she was wondering how to kick off the conversation, Claudia said, “Sheriff Doogie tells me that you were the one who found Mike.”
Suzanne took a sip of coffee, allowing herself time to gather her thoughts. “I’m afraid that’s right,” she said. “I stopped by yesterday afternoon to pick up a couple wheels of cheese and . . . well . . . when Mike wasn’t around I went looking for him in the barn. And then I . . .” She knew she was stumbling around with her answer and felt bad about it. “That’s when I found him.”
Claudia gazed at her. “Sheriff Doogie said he hadn’t been dead all that long.”
Suzanne took another sip of coffee. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“So you didn’t see anyone?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Claudia let loose a heavy sigh. “Sheriff Doogie mentioned that you had seen someone.”
Suzanne sat up straighter in her chair. “Well, okay, yes. I thought I might have seen someone off in the distance. Someone kind of peering at me through the woods.” A tear trickled down Claudia’s cheek and Suzanne said, “You seem awfully upset—maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this.”
Claudia shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I want to talk about it. I need to talk it out.”
Suzanne looked around the kitchen at the white ruffled curtains, embroidered kitchen towels, and cheery yellow cupboards and thought, Okay, here’s my chance. “I understand you were visiting your sister?” She decided to keep her questions low-key and offhand.
Claudia nodded. “In Minneapolis. But I was halfway home when I found out about Mike. I was just rolling through Mankato when I decided to call. Instead of getting Mike on the line I got Deputy Driscoll. He broke the bad news to me.”
“Sorry you had to hear it that way. Long-distance, I mean.”
“He was pretty gentle about it. But then Sheriff Doogie got on the phone and started asking me all sorts of questions. Like how long was I supposed to be gone? Why was I coming home early? That sort of thing.”
“Were you coming home early?” Suzanne asked.
“Yes,” Claudia said. “But just by one day.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Not really. Well . . .” Claudia lifted a hand and idly massaged her forehead. “Maybe I had a weird sort of vibe. Like something might be going on. Not that I thought anything was wrong, mind you. Just that something might not be right . . . if that makes any sense to you.”
“Kind of.”
Claudia stood up and went to the stove. She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it back to the table. “Mike didn’t have any enemies,” she said.
“I’m sure he didn’t,” Suzanne said. Though she knew there had to be at least one.
“That I know of. Still . . . Sheriff Doogie has been asking some very probing questions.”
“Such as?”
“Like what am I going to do now?”
“What are your plans?” Suzanne asked.
“I’m going to sell this place,” Claudia said. The words tumbled out of her mouth without a moment’s hesitation.
“Excuse me . . . but really?” Suzanne hadn’t been expecting such a strong definitive answer from such a newly minted widow.
“Oh, ab
solutely I am. Fact is, we’ve had a number of offers over the years, but Mike has always turned them down cold.” Claudia gave a rueful smile as she glanced around. “He loved this old homestead. Loved getting up at the crack of dawn. He even loved those fool cows.”
For some reason, Suzanne felt the words loved them more than me hanging unsaid in the air.
“I know Sheriff Doogie asked you about this,” Suzanne said. “And please excuse me if you think I’m probing. But do you have any suspicions about who might have murdered Mike?”
“I’m not really sure,” Claudia murmured.
“I mean, now that you’ve had twenty-four hours to think on it, maybe a few ideas have seeped into your mind. Maybe you remembered someone who might have had a grudge against Mike.”
“Not really a grudge.” Claudia licked her lips nervously as if she wanted to say more.
Suzanne reached out and gently patted one of Claudia’s hands. “If there’s anyone you can think of . . . if you have even the slightest suspicion.”
Claudia looked slightly pained. “I hate to . . .”
“Is there someone, Claudia?” Suzanne asked quietly.
Claudia seemed to steel herself. She put her hands flat on the table, clenched her mouth tightly, and said, “I have to admit . . . I’ve always been a little fearful of Noah Jorgenson.”
Suzanne shook her head; the name didn’t ring a bell. “I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.”
“No, you probably wouldn’t,” Claudia said. “But I’ve been thinking about this and I’m fairly sure that Noah’s the one you saw. You know . . . standing there in the woods. He lives on the farm adjacent to this one.”
“He owns it?” Suzanne pounced on this newfound information.
“No, no, Noah is just a boy. Probably around sixteen now.” Claudia’s eyes hardened. “But he’s tall and muscular for his age. And he’s always been homeschooled by his mother.” There was a long pause. “The boy is supposedly autistic.”
“And you’re frightened of him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I am now, yes,” Claudia said. “The thing is . . . Mike was always very kind to Noah, so Noah tended to follow him around like a puppy. That was okay when Noah was just a kid. But now . . . now that he’s a big strapping guy . . .” The expression on Claudia’s face changed from one of fear to anger. “I mean, if Noah’s got a problem with impulse control, imagine what could happen? What might have happened?”
“Have you shared this information with Sheriff Doogie?” Suzanne asked. “Told him about Noah?”
“I most certainly did.”
“And what did Doogie say?”
Claudia’s jaw tensed and her blue-gray eyes shone like a pair of polished nickels. “He promised to conduct a thorough investigation.”
CHAPTER 6
THE Cackleberry Club hummed with conversation and typical café racket. Silverware clinked against plates, cups settled into saucers, rumors were whispered and shared. It looked as if murder had been good for business.
Suzanne flew in the front door, took one look at the blackboard, and scratched her head. Toni had written out today’s menu, but the printing looked like a combination of Pythagorean theorem coupled with Egyptian hieroglyphics. Oh no, that would never do. Wiping the blackboard clean, Suzanne set about correcting Toni’s scritches and scratches. With colored chalk, she drew a smiling cartoon chef holding up a large baking sheet. Inside the sheet she printed Today’s Specials. Then she quickly listed those specials: spinach salad, Chicken Pickin’ Stir-Fry, beef barley soup, and a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. For dessert they were offering cherry cake bars, rice pudding, and fudge brownies.
“Oh, you didn’t like my menu?” Toni grinned. She’d crept up behind Suzanne.
“I liked it just fine. I just couldn’t read it.”
Toni looked puzzled. “I guess nobody else could, either. A couple of people asked me to translate.”
“You see,” Suzanne said, happy she’d caught the problem before lunch was in full swing. “You didn’t know you could speak a foreign language, did you?”
“I do now,” Toni said, looking pleased. “Hey, maybe I could get a job at the United Nations.”
“There you go.”
Suzanne and Toni got busy then. Greeting customers and taking orders as more and more customers piled in. They did their lunchtime ballet of dodging tables, pouring water, delivering entrées, and keeping up a running patter with their guests.
Just as they were hitting maximum velocity, the front door slammed open and, like Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars, Mayor Mobley postured dramatically in the doorway. Mobley, who had somehow managed to get reelected to a second term, was a tower of jiggle who wore tight neon-bright golf shirts and Sansabelt slacks that barely contained his ample girth.
Suzanne had always assumed that Mobley was crooked as a creek and could be bought for a song. He always seemed to have his sticky little fingers in some shady deal and the rumor around City Hall was that he wasn’t immune to accepting a payoff or two. Or three or four.
“Suzanne,” Mobley bellowed as he strode across the café, enjoying his own self-importance and the slight stir he created. “I want you to meet someone.” Tagging along behind him was a nice-looking man with a swarthy complexion and a mane of salt-and-pepper hair. Unlike Mobley’s out-of-season golf getup, this guy was dressed in a tasteful dark blue suede jacket and putty-colored corduroy slacks. A large gold watch winked from his left wrist.
Suzanne smiled gamely and pulled out chairs at her last available table for the two men. “Hello, Mr. Mayor. Nice to see you again.” She smiled at his companion. “Welcome to the Cackleberry Club. I hope you brought your appetite.”
Mobley sat down heavily and said to his friend, “This is Suzanne, she’s one of Kindred’s hotshot entrepreneurs.” He paused. “Even though she’s usually a colossal pain in the butt.”
Suzanne ignored Mobley. He was a legend in his own mind.
But Mobley continued with his introduction. “Suzanne, this slicko here is Byron Wolf. He’s a majorly successful real estate developer. A really top-notch guy.”
Suzanne shook hands with the rather attractive Mr. Wolf. “Nice to meet you,” she said. She figured if Mobley was fawning over this guy, he was probably crooked as well. After all, birds of a feather . . .
“I’m hoping Byron will start spreading some of his real estate razzle-dazzle around our fair city,” Mobley said loudly.
“I take it you have some developments in the area?” Suzanne asked Wolf.
Wolf nodded. “That’s right. I built a shopping center over near Cornucopia and I just finished developing Brass Gates Estates over in Jessup.”
Suzanne knew the place in Jessup, she’d driven past it on more than one occasion. Brass Gates was a gated community cluttered with over-the-top mega mansions. Exactly the sort of thing she hated.
“Actually,” Mobley said, looking like he was about to burst with pride, “Byron is looking to do another planned community just outside of Kindred.”
Suzanne nodded politely. But, deep down, she hoped that Kindred, a picture-postcard little town, would be able to weather any additional real estate development that came its way. She prayed that the parks, towering bluffs, Catawba Creek, and the Big Woods on the outskirts of town wouldn’t be mowed down in the name of progress.
“Byron Wolf is exactly the kind of go-getter this town needs,” Mobley boasted. “He knows how to kick business up a notch.”
“Thank you,” Wolfe said. He allowed himself a semi-modest smile. “But I like to think of myself as a community builder. That I create the kind of upscale homes that will bring in the right kind of residents. New people who will contribute their skills and talents.”
Suzanne arched an eyebrow. New people, new talent. This all sounded very pie in the sky to her. “So what’s in it fo
r you?” she asked Mobley. “You’re not usually this excited about residential construction.” She knew Mobley had helped to spearhead the building of the new for-profit prison, that ugly pile of gray stone that hunkered on the outskirts of Kindred. She’d heard firsthand that he’d fattened his bank account from kickbacks on contracts.
“I care deeply for this community,” Mobley said. He said it so fervently that beads of perspiration actually popped out on his forehead. Or maybe it was because Petra was running the oven full bore and the heater in the café was roaring like a blast furnace.
“So it’s about economic development,” Suzanne said. She’d heard Mobley blather on like this before. Platitudes that won him votes, ideas that never quite sprouted into fruition.
Mobley’s jowls sloshed as he bobbed his head. “And increased opportunity for Kindred.”
With a look of amusement on his handsome face, Wolf listened to Mobley. Finally he said, “You know what, Mr. Mayor? You’d better stop pontificating so we can order lunch. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Excellent point,” said Mobley, who seemed disappointed to be cut short.
“What can I bring you?” Suzanne asked, her pen poised above her order pad.
“Grilled ham and cheese,” Mobley said. “With fries if you got ’em.”
Suzanne carefully wrote down, Heart Attack Special.
“Spinach salad for me,” Wolf said.
Suzanne wrote down Veg. “It’ll be just a few minutes, gentlemen.” She hesitated for a moment, tapped her pen hard against the table and said, “Out of curiosity, where exactly is this wonderful housing development going to be?”
“Ah,” Wolf said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “We’re still dickering about the land, but I’m hoping to move ahead as fast as possible.” He glanced across the table at Mobley and added, “Especially since the situation seems a bit more favorable now.”
Something dinged in Suzanne’s brain and she said, “Just whose land are you dickering for, anyway?”
