Scorched Eggs (15 page)

“A lawyer,” said Suzanne.

“Private investigator?” said Toni.

“But whatever you do,” said Suzanne, “be honest with the sheriff.”

“Petra needs you in the kitchen, Suzanne,” said Toni. “Like . . . right now.”

“Good luck, Jack,” said Suzanne.

“Hit the road, Jack,” said Toni.

*   *   *

“
Y
OU
really didn't need me to help out, did you?” Suzanne asked Petra. The mingled aroma of homemade soup and fresh-baked bread was comforting after her strange confrontation with Jack Venable.

Petra turned from her stove, where she was overseeing a pan of grilled chicken sausages. “Hmm?”

Toni spoke up quickly. “I was staging an intervention,” she said. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

“I didn't really,” said Suzanne.

“Oh?” said Toni. “I think you should tell Petra exactly why Jack Venable came skulking in here today.”

“Did the jerk come here to confess?” said Petra. Her words tumbled out uncharacteristically harsh for her.

“Noooo,” said Suzanne. “He actually asked for my help. Apparently people are beginning to talk.”

Petra sniffed. “I'd say Jack's got some nerve.” Then, “You wouldn't do that, would you? Help him?”

Toni held up a finger. “I actually have a theory concerning that.”

“What are you talking about?” said Petra.

Toni looked thoughtful for a few moments, as if she was pulling her words together. Then she said, “Don't you think any effort that goes into solving Hannah's death is a good thing?”

“You mean solving her
murder
,” said Petra.

“Right,” said Toni.

“No,” said Petra. “I don't want Suzanne to help Jack Venable in any way, shape, or form. In fact, I think we should let him stew in his own juices until he gets arrested.”

“Okay,” said Toni, “I guess we know how you feel about
that
.”

*   *   *

W
HEN
Doogie finally came in for lunch, Suzanne was feeling decidedly nervous about the poker chip. She knew she should have turned it over to him sooner, but the truth of the matter was, it had simply slipped her mind.

Of course it had. With owl issues, candlelight memorials, and a half dozen suspects popping their heads up like errant gophers, it had been a busy couple of days. Still, the chip could be important. Which is why she positioned it on the butcher-block table, then snapped a quick photo of it with her cell phone. Because . . . well, you just never know.

“Sheriff,” Suzanne said, placing a gingham napkin in front of him and laying down a knife, fork, and spoon. “I have something to show you.”

“Now what?” Doogie whipped off his Smokey Bear hat and stuck it on the stool next to him. His customary hint that he didn't want to be bothered during lunch. Actually, he didn't want to be bothered
any
time.

“I have something I need to show you, but I don't want you to be upset.” She poured a cup of coffee for him into a large ceramic mug.

“No problem,” said Doogie. “Because I'm already upset. Mayor Mobley and the city fathers are breathing fire down my neck. And that dang Mrs. Duesterman called my office three times this morning, yapping at me because the neighbor's dog keeps digging up her garden.” He gritted his teeth. “You see what a poor county sheriff has to contend with? Scratched-up pumpkins and ruined rutabagas, on top of an arson and murder investigation.”

“My news might pertain to two out of three of your issues,” said Suzanne.

Doogie reached for his coffee and cocked an eye at her. “Oh yeah?”

“It kind of slipped my mind, but this past Sunday morning, when I was walking Baxter and Scruff down the alley behind that burned-out County Services Building, I found this.”

Suzanne placed the chip on the counter.

Doogie stared at it. “You found this in the wreckage of the fire?”

“Well, more like on the edge.”

Doogie poked at the chip with an index finger. “It's a casino chip, right?”

“Toni thinks it's from the Prairie Star Casino.”

“And you waited until
now
to tell me?” Doogie sounded steamed.

“Like I said, I kind of forgot. There's been so much going on . . .” Now Suzanne just felt stupid. If it was a clue, Doogie should have had this right away. The arson investigators should have had it.

“Doggone it, Suzanne, you were withholding evidence.”

“I wasn't, really. I wouldn't do that.”

“Who else has handled this besides you?” asked Doogie.

“Nobody,” said Suzanne. “Well, not that I know of.”

“Scoot in the kitchen and get me a plastic Baggie, okay? A fresh one untouched by human hands.”

“Sure,” said Suzanne, still feeling unsettled.

“And while you're at it, you can have Petra rustle me up a nice meat loaf sandwich while I sit here feeling aggravated.”

*   *   *

“
D
OOGIE
'
S
ticked off, right?” said Toni. She peered out through the pass-through at Doogie, who had tucked into his meat loaf sandwich with the gusto of Henry VIII.

Suzanne seesawed a hand back and forth. “Sort of.”

“Does he know he's eating chicken meat loaf instead of beef?” asked Petra.

“No,” said Suzanne. “And don't you dare tell him.”

“He's almost done,” said Toni, still keeping an eye on him. “He's gonna want dessert.”

“That's what I'm counting on,” said Suzanne. She was already slicing an enormous piece of carrot cake for him.

“Compliments of the house,” said Suzanne as she set the cake in front of Doogie.

Doogie blinked, smiled at the cake, and stifled a belch. “You're trying to butter me up, Suzanne. I can tell. Whenever you want something you ply me with sugar.”

“Look,” said Suzanne. “All I want is a little quid pro quo. I gave you the chip—which may or may not help advance your investigation. Now I'd like a little information from you.”

Doogie sat poised with his fork. “What kind of information?”

“A couple of things. First, did Bruce Winthrop call you about the dustup he had with Ricky Wilcox over the pesticide permit?”

“He did,” said Doogie. He aimed a finger at Suzanne. “Said it slipped his brain just like finding that doggone chip slipped your brain. Duh.”

Suzanne let his insult go by. “The other thing I was wondering about concerns the woman who got saved in the fire. The woman who lived in that second-floor apartment.”

Doogie's nod was imperceptible. “Marty Wolfson's wife.”

“Yes,” said Suzanne. “Is she still in town?”

“As far as I know, she is,” Doogie said cautiously.

“And Wolfson's still a suspect, right?”

“You certainly are fishing for inside information,” said Doogie.

“That's because I've got something to trade,” said Suzanne.

Doogie patted his shirt pocket and smiled. “No, you don't. I've already got the chip.”

“I've got something else,” said Suzanne. “A key piece of information.”

Doogie's gray eyes studied her for a moment, then he leaned back and said, “Wolfson's still a suspect, yes. He's not exactly on my A-roster, but he's certainly sitting squarely on my B-list. Especially since you saw him perusing handguns yesterday afternoon.” He gestured with his fork. “Now what have you got for me?”

“Marlys Shelton? One of the dancers at Hoobly's?”

Doogie nodded.

“That's who Jack Venable is having an affair with.”

S
UZANNE
wasn't a huge fan of Facebook, but a lot of her customers had urged her to start a Cackleberry Club page. And then Petra warmed up to the idea because she figured they could update folks on their breakfast and lunch specials as well as her various knitting classes.

So that's what Suzanne was working on this early afternoon. Sitting in her office, trying to figure out which photos to add, what captions to write.

Toni rapped her knuckles on the door frame. “Knock, knock, can I interrupt you for a second?”

Suzanne spun around in her office chair. “Please do.”

Toni scrunched up her face and peered over Suzanne's shoulder at the computer screen. “How's it going?”

“Okay.”

“Do you understand the allure of Facebook? Of getting all those photos and random musings from your so-called friends? To me it always feels like my aunt Ethel's Christmas letter coming at me every couple of days.”

“I hear you,” said Suzanne. She wasn't that big a fan of social media, either.

“So here's the deal, the luncheon crowd has pretty much cleared out and I'm working on those sunflower arrangements for the tea tables.”

“Okay.”

“So do we want to set up two tables or three tables?”

“Let's see,” said Suzanne, opening her reservation book and quickly paging through it. “We've got twelve people coming in . . . so let's seat six guests at each of the large round tables.”

“Got it,” said Toni. “Oh, and Petra wants you to come and taste her sunflower cheese spread.”

“Perfect,” said Suzanne. “I wasn't getting very far with this anyway.”

*   *   *

“
I
think it's wonderful,” said Petra. “Then again, I'm the one who whipped it up.” She dropped a generous scoop of sunflower cheese spread atop a triangle of whole wheat bread and handed it to Suzanne. “But I want to know what
you
think.”

Suzanne took a bite, smiled, and took another bite. “Very tasty.”

“Good,” said Petra. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, surveying her realm. “I've also got sunflower pumpkin muffins baking in the oven and I already made two batches of sunflower raisin cookies.”

“This really is a sunflower tea,” said Suzanne. “Somehow I figured that particular theme only applied to the décor.”

“Oh no,” said Petra. “We aim to please, no matter how outlandish the request.”

“So I'll have Toni put out the yellow plates and the gold silverware.”

“Maybe you could even tie some of that yellow netting around the chair backs,” Petra suggested. “We've got about a zillion yards left over from that baby shower we hosted for Trina Sjoblad a couple weeks back.”

“I think that netting would look nice and festive. Really brighten the room.”

“Oh, and Suzanne . . . I think I might have heard your momma owl hooting and flapping around out back.”

“Really?” Suzanne crossed the kitchen and peered expectantly out the window. She didn't see the owl, but she had a feeling it was up there, watching and waiting for just the right time.

“The only problem is,” said Petra, “I'm pretty sure she thinks you're doing a wonderful job in caring for her baby.”

“Oh dear,” said Suzanne, glancing at the cardboard box where the little owl was nestled. “I wish you wouldn't say that.”

Toni hustled in with a tub of dirty dishes. “This is the last of 'em,” she said, setting them next to the sink. “Now I'm gonna set up the tea tables.” She stuck a clean spoon into a bowl of cookie dough and grabbed a taste. “Yum. So our group is coming at what time?”

“Three,” Suzanne told her.

“Kind of late,” said Toni.

“Kind of good to have so much business,” said Suzanne. She glanced at Petra. “You want me to help make tea sandwiches?”

But Petra waved her off. “Naw, I've got this.”

“Petra?” Suzanne hesitated. “Do you know Marty Wolfson's wife? The lady who was rescued from the second-floor apartment?”

“I do know her,” said Petra. “At least I've met her. Sometimes she brings her little boy to the children's Bible study classes at our church.”

“What's her first name again?”

“Annie,” said Petra.

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Why? Are you going to talk to her?” said Petra. She seemed surprised.

“I thought I might,” said Suzanne. “Her husband's still on Doogie's short list and . . . well, do you want me to keep investigating or not?”

“Absolutely, I do,” said Petra. “Especially since you told me that Wolfson was looking at guns! You know, the one thing that's constantly been in my prayers is that Hannah's murder—and I'm convinced that's what it was—gets solved.”

“Okay then,” said Suzanne.

“I happen to know that Annie is staying with her sister right now,” said Petra. She snatched up a pen and piece of paper. “I don't know the exact address, but I can draw a little map that will show you exactly how to get there.”

*   *   *

T
URNS
out the tea group was really a garden club. A group of women who called themselves the Sunnyside Garden Club and got together for coffee, tea, garden parties, and whatever a few times a year.

This year's president, Molly Owens, was the first one to arrive. She bounded through the door, glanced around with a smile, then let out an excited little “Ooh!” as her eyes focused on the two tables.

Suzanne rushed over to greet her. “Mrs. Owens, I hope everything is to your liking.”

“Molly, call me Molly,” said the woman.

“And I'm Suzanne.”

“You've done a marvelous job,” said Molly. “Everything's so pretty and bright and yellow . . . and, well, the sunflower arrangements look like something Van Gogh might have painted. The ladies are going to be thrilled.”

Toni came skittering out. “Hey there, Molly,” she said. “Great to see you. Welcome.”

“Hi, Toni,” said Molly.

“You two know each other?” said Suzanne.

“Oh sure,” said Toni. “Molly's husband races monster trucks. Me and Junior have run into them a bunch of times over at the Golden Springs Speedway.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “I keep telling Matt to sell that awful thing.”

“Aw, it's not so bad,” said Toni.

“Yes, it is,” said Molly.

*   *   *

T
HE
sunflower tea was a huge success. Once the rest of the guests arrived and were seated, they oohed and aahed over Petra's tea sandwiches with their tasty fillings of sunflower cheese spread, chicken salad, and egg salad. Then, as the tea continued, they begged for recipes for the muffins and cookies. And as Suzanne and Toni refilled steaming cups of Assam tea, several of the women asked to buy tins of that particular tea as well.

“We're killing them out there,” Toni told Petra when she and Suzanne popped in to grab small squares of white picnic cake, the final tea course.

Petra yawned. “That's the general idea, isn't it?”

“Are you okay?” Suzanne asked her.

“I'm okay,” said Petra, wiggling her shoulders. “I just feel a little crumped.”

“You're stressed because Hannah's funeral is tomorrow,” said Toni.

Petra gazed at her. “I'm stressed because Hannah's killer still isn't in jail.”

*   *   *

B
Y
five o'clock, Suzanne was driving along Nicholson Street with Petra's map clutched in her hand, searching for the house where Annie Wolfson lived with her sister. She was in the older part of town, where a lot of the homes were really more like small cottages. Suzanne guessed that eighty or ninety years ago, there had been a kind of lake over here. Of course, that was before city planners had tampered with nature, draining swamps and rerouting streams. Or putting in pipes that took the water underground. When would we learn, she wondered, not to keep tampering with nature?

Probably when all the lakes are dry and the trees are gone
, she thought grimly.
Then somebody's going to look around and say
,
Oops.

Suzanne was generally a pragmatist, but she never stood idly by when the natural order of mother earth was threatened. She signed petitions to save the wolves, protested when Mayor Mobley suggested cutting down a sliver of the original Big Woods to accommodate a go-nowhere road, and tried to grow as many of her own herbs and vegetables as humanly possible.

Petra had once suggested putting a chicken coop behind the Cackleberry Club, since so many people were into raising urban chickens, but Suzanne didn't want to drive her current egg suppliers out of business. It just wouldn't be right. They'd been with her from the beginning, so she was going to stick with them to the very end.

Suzanne consulted her map again and determined that the last house on this block had to be the one she was looking for. She pulled over to the curb and sat there for a few moments, gathering her thoughts and making her plans. First she'd talk to Annie Wolfson, then she'd zip over to the hospital and share a few leftover tea sandwiches with Sam, and then she was going to meet up with Toni for cherry bomb night. And somewhere in between, she had to find time to run home, change clothes, and feed Baxter and Scruff.

When Suzanne knocked on the door of the little white house, she wasn't quite sure what she was going to say. She was just winging it, trying to figure things out as she went along. But when the door creaked open and a familiar face appeared, Suzanne knew exactly what to do.

“Mrs. Wolfson?” she said. “I'm Suzanne Dietz. I don't know if you remember me or not, I'm one of the owners of the Cackleberry Club?”

“Petra's partner,” said Annie Wolfson. She brushed her blond hair back from her face, pulled the door open wider, and said, “Sure, I remember you.” Then she hesitated. “What's up?”

“I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions,” said Suzanne.

“Come in,” Annie invited. “I'm sorry this place is such a mess. My sister's a little laissez-faire when it comes to housekeeping, and Joshua's been running around like a maniac.”

“Joshua,” said Suzanne. “That's your son?”

“Five years old and quite the terror.” She paused. “What kind of questions?” She led Suzanne into the small living room and indicated for her to sit down on the couch, which was the only piece of furniture not covered with a fleet of toy trucks. She picked up a small yellow truck from a worn armchair and sat across from Suzanne, fiddling nervously with the toy.

“I was there last Friday,” said Suzanne. “At the fire. I saw you and Joshua being rescued.”

Annie touched a hand to her heart and said, “An ordeal that was truly terrifying. But I am so indebted to that firefighter. Jason, I think his name was. Scrambling up the ladder like that, reassuring me the entire time, telling me we weren't in any danger, when I'm sure we really were.”

“The firefighters did a great job,” Suzanne acknowledged.

Annie furrowed her brow. “But you're not here to talk about firefighters.”

“I wanted to ask you about your husband.”

“Marty,” said Annie. She blew out a glut of air and her blond bangs ruffled outward. “Marty,” she said again.

“I'm fairly close with Sheriff Doogie,” said Suzanne. “So I know that he's a suspect.”

“Yes.” Now Annie sounded bitter. “I've already been questioned several times by Sheriff Doogie.” She shook her head. “Marty and I did have our differences.”

“The two of you are separated, correct?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “We have been for the past four months. Which is why I was living . . . well, you know.”

“I ask about this,” said Suzanne, “because . . . um . . . I understand there's the matter of an insurance policy.”

“That's exactly why Sheriff Doogie is on Marty's case! But there's just no way he would have intentionally set that fire. He would never hurt Joshua. He loves him.”

“But Joshua wasn't supposed to be home that day,” Suzanne said softly. For some reason, she figured that speaking softly might cushion the blow.

Annie dropped her head into her hands and her shoulders started to shake.

Suzanne felt awful. She jumped up, scurried across the room, and put an arm around Annie's shoulders. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you like this. The woman who died in the fire . . . Hannah Venable . . . she was a friend of mine. That's why I'm kind of digging into this.”

“You didn't upset me,” said Annie, wiping at her tears. “I've been upset for days. Ever since the fire.”

“I'm so sorry,” Suzanne said again.

Annie waved a hand. “Don't be. The crazy thing is, Marty and I were separated and probably headed for divorce. Now . . . the fire, this terrible thing . . . may have actually brought us back together.”

“Seriously?” said Suzanne. Petra had heard rumors that Annie Wolfson had sustained a few injuries at the hands of her husband.

Annie nodded. “It's made us . . . reconsider our priorities. Made us take a good hard look at our relationship.”

This was the absolute last thing Suzanne had expected to hear. She thought there might be an angry tirade laced with some regret, but certainly not news of a possible reconciliation. This was a shocker.

“So there's no doubt in your mind that your husband had anything to do with that fire?” said Suzanne.

Annie gazed at her, her face a picture of sadness. “I guess . . . not,” she said.

But to Suzanne, her answer didn't sound convincing. Not convincing in the least. And all she could hope was that Annie Wolfson didn't end up in the battered woman's shelter over in Jessup. Or shot dead with a newly purchased handgun.