“Ho!” snorted Toni. “Do you really think Deputy Dawg—I mean Driscoll—is any kind of crack investigator?”
“Probably not,” Suzanne allowed. “But that’s only because he’s young and inexperienced.”
“But we’re not,” said Toni. “We’re older and have some miles on us. So like I said, it’s up to us.” She rubbed her hands together. “Who’s blipped on our radar?”
“For the murder?” said Suzanne. “You know I’m still suspicious of Allan Sharp. Especially since he was being sued by Lester Drummond.”
“And there’s Deanna Drummond,” put in Toni. “The nutcase ex-wife who’s lusting after an inheritance.”
“And we did get accosted by Karl Studer,” said Suzanne.
“Studer’s son was incarcerated in prison when Drummond served as warden,” Toni said as an aside to Missy.
“There really are a lot of suspects,” said Missy. She sounded worried but hopeful.
“And there could be more,” said Suzanne. “Trouble is, we don’t know who exactly was under investigation. Doogie played his cards pretty close to the vest.”
“Agreed,” said Toni. “It could be some ordinary guy who’s been rubbing shoulders with all of us.”
“What do you mean?” said Missy.
“Like . . . any old goofball,” replied Toni. She glanced at Suzanne. “Right? Could be somebody we see practically every day at the Cackleberry Club.”
Suzanne gave a polite nod, but she was deep in thought, thinking about the various possibilities, turning the suspects over and over in her mind. Still, no hard evidence had piled up against any one of them. Just idle speculation that could slip off as easy as Teflon. She lifted her eyes and focused on one of the paintings on the wall. It was a combination of illustration, graphics, and wild paint strokes. She recalled how Carmen had bragged to her about collecting outsider art. Art that was naïve, self-taught, and eccentric—completely outside the mainstream.
Her eyes traveled to another canvas where a bizarre, cartoonish red dog clutched a blue building between its jagged teeth. She glanced at the crudely lettered signature in the lower right corner.
“Gantz,” Suzanne said suddenly. She studied the signature again and murmured, “Jake Gantz.”
“What about him?” said Toni.
Suzanne’s mind was starting to hum. “What if he’s the wild card in all of this?”
“What do you mean?” asked Toni.
“Gantz was incarcerated at the Jasper Creek Prison,” said Suzanne. “Under Lester Drummond’s watch.”
“He was?” said Toni.
“Dale Huffington mentioned it to me,” said Suzanne. “I kind of pooh-poohed the notion of Gantz being involved in this thing. But Doogie did seem interested in him . . .”
“Holy garbanzo beans!” said Toni. “You think Gantz could be the killer?”
Missy’s eyes went round. “Could he be?”
Suzanne didn’t much like the idea that was formulating in her head. Still, it was irritating her like a grain of sand inside an oyster. So it was a notion she had to pursue. “Jake’s kind of a loner,” she said in a halting voice. “He’s a guy who pretty much lives off the grid. And he’s ex-military.”
“When you put it that way,” said Toni, “Jake does sound like a viable suspect. He’s in and out of all sorts of places and nobody pays much attention to him.”
“That’s true,” said Missy. “He just sort of drifts around town looking down-and-out.”
“But that doesn’t make him a killer,” said Suzanne, backpedaling a little.
“But what if it’s all an act?” said Toni. “What if he’s one of those guys who’s seething with inner rage?”
“Suzanne!” said Missy. “You have to look into this!”
Suzanne shook her head. “I really can’t do that.”
“Why not?” said Missy.
“For one thing,” said Suzanne, “I’m not a trained investigator.”
“You’re the next best thing,” said Toni. “Heck, you’ve gotten this far. You’ve gotten further than anyone else in law enforcement!”
“You could at least talk to Gantz,” urged Missy.
“Talk to him about what?” said Suzanne. “I can’t just approach Gantz with the notion that he’s a murder suspect. That might totally scare him away!”
“Maybe you could just talk to him about Lester Drummond and try to draw him out,” said Missy. “See what his reaction is. Could you do that? Please?”
Toni was nodding in agreement. “We’ve come this far, right?”
“Maybe,” said Suzanne. “Honestly, though, I don’t even know where the man lives.”
“But look,” said Missy, pointing at the walls. “Carmen purchased several of Gantz’s paintings, so she must have his address. She’s a stickler for keeping records.”
Toni and Missy pawed through Carmen’s file drawers then, looking for anything that might help. Finally, in a file labeled “Art,” they found a scrawled receipt.
“Is this Gantz’s address?” Toni wondered as she smoothed a piece of crumpled paper. “It’s hard to tell—his handwriting’s so spindly and awful.”
“Does this address say sixty-nine fourteen?” asked Missy.
“I think that’s a seven,” said Toni, scratching her head. “It’s sixty-seven fourteen Sinkhole Road. But it’s really rural. I don’t have a clue where this might be.”
But Suzanne recognized the address. “Toni, do you remember that weird cult, the Neukommen Following, that used to live out on Sinkhole Road? I think this might be the same address.”
“That cult moved away,” said Toni. “Over a year ago.”
“I realize that,” said Suzanne. “But maybe Jake Gantz is the new tenant.”
* * *
THEY bid their good-byes to Missy—when they would see her again, they didn’t know. But they had to move on. Were motivated, in fact, to check out Jake Gantz’s whereabouts.
So Suzanne and Toni drove back to the center of town, then followed a rambling blacktop road that eventually branched off to Sinkhole Road.
“I think we’re in Deer County now,” said Toni, struggling to get her bearings. “Be nice if we had GPS.”
Suzanne popped open the glove box.
“Oh no,” said Toni. “No GPS in there.”
“Better than GPS,” said Suzanne, unfurling a piece of paper. “A map.”
“Ah,” said Toni. “Reliable, old low-tech.”
Sinkhole Road was lonely, dark, and dreary. Not many houses were out this way where the bluffs piled up, one on top of the other, sliced through by dark, fast-rushing streams. In the lowlands, thick stands of tamarack and scrawny pines indicated it wasn’t exactly good farm country, either.
“Any minute now,” said Suzanne. “Any minute.” One eye was trained on the road, the other on her map. “The turnoff’s here somewhere.”
“But where?” wondered Toni. She’d been driving for a good twenty-five minutes and was starting to regret their slightly impetuous detour.
“There!” cried Suzanne.
Toni cranked her steering wheel hard and slewed into the turn, bumping onto a narrow rutted road they’d both almost missed.
“This is awfully remote,” said Toni as they humped along a dirt road while wet tree branches slapped the sides of her car. Her car labored and groaned as the road twisted up through a fern-lined gully and then leveled out for a hundred yards or so on top of a woodsy hill. Another half mile of bad road through dark groves of burr oak and red maples brought them to their final destination.
“This is it?” said Toni, sounding disappointed as the car crept across a mixture of gravel and sticky mud. There were four dilapidated clapboard houses, a small building atop a far ridge, and an old-fashioned barn, the wood weathered and gone to silver.
�
��The road ends here,” said Suzanne. “So, yes, this is it.”
Toni rolled to a stop. “Nice little compound they got here. Rustic and outdoorsy, but without that slick Ralph Lauren feel.”
“Funny,” said Suzanne, as she gazed at the broken-down buildings. A light burned in the first house, all the other buildings were dark.
“Now what?” asked Toni. “Do we just knock on the door and say, ‘Hi, how are you?’”
“I guess,” said Suzanne. She pushed the passenger door open and stepped out. “Are you coming?” Toni’s car was idling so roughly it was hard to hear her own words.
“Maybe I better wait in the car,” said Toni. When Suzanne gave her a quizzical look, she added, “Keep it running in case we have to make a quick getaway.”
“Yeah . . . right,” said Suzanne. She stepped gingerly around a couple of mud puddles as she walked up to the door of the shanty. She drew a deep breath and knocked. Her nerves felt jumpy and frayed and she wasn’t sure what to say or what to expect.
Suzanne waited in the dark for a few minutes, then knocked again. Nobody home? Or did they just not feel like coming to the door? On the other hand, how could anyone ignore the throaty rumble of Toni’s car?
Eventually, the door creaked open and there stood Jake Gantz. He was barefoot, dressed in camo pants and a flimsy waffle weave T-shirt. He gazed at her, blinked rapidly, and said, “Uh . . . Suzanne?” He didn’t just sound surprised—he sounded shocked.
“I was just, um, in the area,” Suzanne began. She knew she was fumbling her words, sounding a little strange herself. “And I thought I’d stop by and have a quick chat. Maybe ask you . . .”
Gantz pushed open a battered screen door and peered into the darkness. He saw the idling car and inclined his head toward it. “Who’s that?” he asked. “Who’s out there?”
Suzanne turned and saw that she could just make out Toni’s outline. “Oh, that’s Toni,” she told him. “You remember her. From the Cackleberry Club?”
“Toni,” said Gantz, as if he were testing out the word. “Yeah . . . okay.” He raised a tentative hand in greeting.
Sitting behind the wheel of her car, Toni looked startled by his greeting. She raised a hand just as her car began to roll forward.
“What’s she . . . ?” began Gantz.
And suddenly, before Suzanne knew what was happening, Toni’s car let loose a shuddering buck that seemed to rattle every nut and bolt that held the old buggy together. Then the engine revved loudly, a glut of blue exhaust spewed from the tailpipe, and the car backfired, producing an ear-splitting retort that echoed off the nearby trees and sounded like a rifle shot.
Gantz, a look of abject horror on his face, suddenly flung himself face forward into the mud. “Hold your fire!” he cried, his voice rising in a terrified, pathetic scream. “For gosh sakes, hold your fire!”
Shocked beyond belief, all Suzanne could do was gaze at Gantz as he lay cowering on the ground, his hands covering his head. And her single thought was, Oh dear Lord, the poor man.
CHAPTER 24
A hard rain drummed on the roof as Suzanne, Toni, and Petra bustled about the kitchen of the Cackleberry Club. It didn’t matter how nasty it was outside, though, because inside, Canadian bacon sizzled, banana bread released its sweet aroma as it baked, and sliced avocados and a bowl full of eggs sat at the ready for Petra’s Wednesday morning cheddar and avocado omelets.
This was the only sense of normalcy, however. Because Suzanne and Toni hadn’t wasted a second in cluing Petra in on Missy’s whereabouts last night. Then, of course, the story progressed to their woeful tale about dropping in on Jake Gantz. And how the poor man had reacted so badly to the noise from Toni’s car.
“It was just a lousy backfire,” Toni told Petra. “Happens all the time. Junior says it’s ’cause of a crappy fuel pump.”
“But Jake, that poor soul,” said Petra, fretting. “For him to be so terrified of a noise that he immediately hit the dirt and covered his head! He must have really believed there was rifle fire coming at him.”
“It kind of did sound like a rifle shot,” Toni admitted.
“I’m not a doctor or a therapist,” said Petra, looking a little mournful, “but I’d say that Gantz is probably suffering from post-traumatic stress. Like so many of our poor returning veterans.”
“And I’m no Sherlock Holmes,” said Toni, glancing at Suzanne, “but I’m guessing that Gantz is probably not a viable suspect anymore. A person who’s that afraid of a little noise . . .” She shrugged as she continued to apply a set of silver Lee press-on nails.
“That’s pretty much my feeling, too,” said Suzanne. “Jake Gantz isn’t a killer. He’s just too timid and wounded . . .”
“Well, we didn’t really shoot him!” broke in Toni. “It just sounded that way.”
“I meant psychologically wounded,” said Suzanne.
“I think you’re right,” said Petra. “There’s no way Gantz could have ever gone up against a tough, intimidating guy like Lester Drummond.”
“Then who did?” said Toni. When nobody ventured an answer she said, “Looks like we’re back to square one.”
“More like square one and a half,” said Suzanne. “Now we also have the Missy situation to contend with.”
“You’re not going to turn her in, are you?” said Petra.
“I’m hoping she’ll turn herself in,” said Suzanne.
Toni shook her head. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”
“Then she’ll be a fugitive,” said Suzanne. “And we’ll all be complicit.”
“But some fugitives are completely innocent,” said Toni. “Look at poor Richard Kimble.”
“That was a movie,” said Petra. “This is real life.”
“A real-life mess,” said Suzanne. She thought of Doogie still lying in the hospital and made a mental note to call and check on him.
Petra glanced through the pass-through at their handful of customers. A dozen or so souls had braved the rain so they could enjoy a home-cooked breakfast at the Cackleberry Club. “Toni, maybe you better go out and start taking orders.”
“Consider it done,” said Toni, as she gingerly reached for her order pad.
“And don’t stab anyone with those fake talons!” said Petra.
“Please,” said Toni as she hustled through the swinging door.
Petra cocked an eye at Suzanne. “Okay, what are you doing to do? About Missy, I mean.”
“I’m still trying to figure something out,” said Suzanne. “Maybe some sort of compromise.” She lifted a hand, then let it drop to her side. “I’ll noodle a few ideas around.”
“While you’re noodling,” said Petra, “could you please pull that pan of blueberry muffins from the oven? I’m pretty sure they’re done by now.”
Suzanne slid her hand into a puffy oven mitt, opened the oven door, and grabbed the muffins. “Perfect,” she said, as she placed the pan on the countertop. The muffins were golden and steamy and fabulous looking.
“Don’t just eyeball them,” said Petra, as she cracked eggs into a bowl. “Be sure to test them.” Petra was a stickler for testing her baked goods for doneness.
So Suzanne grabbed a toothpick and poked the center muffin.
“Did it come out clean?” asked Petra.
“Clean as a whistle,” said Suzanne, as a gust of wind suddenly whooshed against the building, rattling the windows on the kitchen’s back wall.
“Good,” said Petra. She reached up and turned on her radio. “This weather is driving me bonkers. It feels like something nasty is about to break loose. Like the ions in the atmosphere have all gone stir-crazy.”
But Suzanne was still contemplating her next move with Missy. Should she call Deputy Driscoll? Let him in on the little secret that she’d located Missy? But if she did spill the beans, what exactly would the ramif
ications be? Would Driscoll want to speed over to Jessup, all crazy-ass lights and sirens, to slap a pair of handcuffs on Missy and drag her to jail?
Maybe I could reason with Driscoll. Make him understand that Missy is really innocent. And make it clear that law enforcement should be looking at the likes of Karl Studer or Allan Sharp or Deanna Drummond—or maybe even Boots Wagner?
Should she try that? Was her argument convincing enough?
Deep in her heart, Suzanne knew this was all just wishful thinking. No, the best thing, the smartest thing to do, was wait until Doogie had recovered and was well enough to rejoin the investigation. Then she could sit down with him and precisely lay out the situation. If she did that, Doogie would be able to figure out the next move.
“We’re getting slammed!” Toni yelped as she hustled back into the kitchen.
Petra snatched the breakfast orders from Toni’s hand and shot Suzanne a worried look. “Suzanne?”
“I’m on it,” said Suzanne. She grabbed her long black apron, draped it around her neck, and was through the swinging door with one quick lunge.
The café was suddenly so busy that Suzanne had her work cut out for her. She seated two tables of slightly soggy newcomers, took several orders, explained the difference between Eggs Balderdash and Eggs in Purgatory to a traveling salesman, then slid behind the counter and hastily brewed another pot of Sumatran coffee. Strong and hearty, it was a good, fortifying blend for a stormy day like today.
Toni joined her at the counter, grabbing a pitcher of orange juice and filling two glasses. “Weren’t you taking this afternoon off?” she asked. “Wasn’t this the day you and Sam were supposed to go trout fishing?”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to change our plans,” said Suzanne, wiping her hands on her apron. “You get this much wind and rain and all sort of little bugs and seeds get washed into the streams. When that happens, the trout are kind of overwhelmed by an easy food source.”
“So your hooks or flies or whatever are totally unappealing to the little fishies, huh?” said Toni.
“That’s about the size of it.”
Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) Page 25
