Scorched Eggs (19 page)

“Kit,” said Suzanne, “you don't look so good.”

“I don't feel very good,” said Kit. She really did look pale and shaky.

“Is it the baby?” Toni asked, suddenly concerned.

If Kit's pregnancy was bothering her, Suzanne didn't want to take any chances. “Maybe you should go home,” she suggested.

“I hate to do that,” said Kit. “I don't want to leave you guys in the lurch.”

“We're always in the lurch,” Petra muttered.

“Go home and rest,” said Suzanne. “Really.”

“Put your feet up,” said Toni.

“Only if you're sure it's okay,” said Kit.

“We're sure,” said Suzanne.

“Thank you,” said Kit. “But I promise you ladies that I'll be back here Friday night for the dinner theater. I know you're going to be incredibly busy and I know you're counting on me to help serve.”

“Bless you, sweetheart,” said Petra. “We'd appreciate that.”

“The dinner theater,” said Suzanne, looking a little startled. “I almost forgot. We're having a run-through tonight—a rehearsal.”

“That's right,” said Toni. “So nobody break a leg!”

P
ETRA
leaned backward, grabbed a tin of muffins from the oven as her right hand stirred a kettle of tomato basil soup. Then she set down her spoon, whirled again, and seemed to lose her balance for a split second. That's all it took for the hot tin of muffins to crash to the floor.

“Oh shizzle!” she cried.

“What?” said Suzanne, leaning through the pass-through from the café side. “Oh.” She rushed into the kitchen to see if she could be of assistance.

“Five-second rule?” she asked Petra. Everyone knew the five-second rule: if you could snatch dropped food off the kitchen floor within five seconds' time, it was okay to eat or serve.

But Petra was shaking her head. “Afraid not. I worry that the state health board would swoop in and take our restaurant license away.”

“Crumbs for the birds then,” said Suzanne. “Or maybe my momma owl.”

“If she's still out there.”

“She's out there, all right,” said Suzanne. “I heard her hooting away when I drove in this morning. I think she's just waiting for the right time to put in an appearance.”

“Or for you to adopt her baby so she can be carefree and single again,” said Toni, popping into the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about. Then, when she saw the ruined muffins scattered on the floor, she grabbed a broom and dustpan and set to work.

“Clumsy of me,” Petra fretted. “I guess I'm still rattled from the funeral.”

“You know what's really wrong with you?” said Toni.

“No,” said Petra. “But I'm sure you're going to tell me.”

“You're suffering from apocalyptaphobia,” said Toni.

“That's an awfully big word to come from such a little woman,” said Suzanne. “What does it mean exactly?”

“It's like end-of-the-world syndrome,” said Toni. “Fear of zombies and nuclear war and the apocalypse.”

“Nuts,” said Petra. “I don't give a second thought to any of that doom and gloom nonsense. I'm more concerned with practical issues. Like will my cheese soufflé fall and go splat, or will we receive our shipment of Jade Sapphire cashmere yarn. Or, how about this . . . do I dare wear a bathing suit to Flo Miller's end-of-summer party that I've just been invited to?”

“A pool party?” said Suzanne.

“Yes,” said Petra. “And of course I forgot my workout at the gym. I mean, that's four years in a row now.”

“Are you gonna wear a bikini or a tankini?” asked Toni.

Petra stared at Toni as if she were spouting a foreign language.

“Ho!” said Toni. “I bet you don't even know what a tankini is.”

“Okay, so I'm not up on your hot fashion lingo,” said Petra. “But a tankini doesn't sound good. It sounds like it'd be clingy and nasty and reveal way too much of my love handles.”

“If the shoe fits,” said Toni.

“It's not my feet I'm worried about.”

*   *   *

T
HE
big luncheon rush never did materialize. There was just a gentle trickle of customers from around eleven in the morning until two in the afternoon. So by early afternoon, with customers finishing their dessert or lingering over coffee, Suzanne, Toni, and Petra were starting to relax. And talk about the upcoming Logan County Fair, which kicked off tomorrow night with a big parade through downtown Kindred.

“What I really love,” said Toni, “are all the rides on the midway. The Tilt-a-Whirl and the Mad Mouse coaster. Even the Tunnel of Love.” She winked at Suzanne.

“Speaking of rides,” said Petra, focusing on Suzanne, “did you ever decide if you're going to enter your horse in the barrel racing competition?”

Suzanne was hesitant. “I
think
I am, but I'm going to work Mocha one last time as soon as I can get out of here. I'll see how it goes and make my final decision then.”

“I've still got to decide about that pie baking contest,” said Petra. “The fair officials are requesting that all food entries—jams and jellies, cakes, pies, cookies, and bars—be brought in tomorrow afternoon.” She drummed her fingers on the counter. “So what do you guys think?”

“Nobody can hold a candle to your rhubarb pie,” said Suzanne.

“Or your lemon meringue,” said Toni. “So I think you should go for it. I love the idea of a big purple ribbon hanging on the wall of the Cackleberry Club.”

“I think maybe I will enter a pie,” Petra said slowly. “Or maybe my banana bread. But I'll come in real early tomorrow morning and do my baking, so everything's just fresh from the oven.”

Suzanne nodded. “Atta girl.”

Toni picked up a frosted chocolate brownie and took a big bite. “Jeez, you guys, if Suzanne rides in the rodeo and Petra enters the baking competition, I'm gonna be the odd gal out.” She sniffed. “Kind of makes me feel like a big fat zero.”

“Wait a minute,” said Suzanne. “Didn't you tell me that Junior was entering his beer in the craft beer competition?”

Toni shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. So what?”

“Maybe you could be Miss Hubba Bubba Beer,” said Petra.

Toni looked askance at that suggestion. “I'm not sure that counts as actually participating.”

“What if you were the brand ambassador?” said Suzanne.

Toni smiled. “Brand ambassador. I like the sound of that. Kind of like the Kardashians for that weight-loss crap or Diddy for his vodka?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” said Suzanne. “Something along that line.”

Toni was clearly warming up to the idea. “That could be a lot of fun. I'm gonna give Junior a call right now.”

*   *   *

M
ID
-
AFTERNOON
,
Suzanne slipped out of the Cackleberry Club and drove on the narrow, packed dirt road to the farm across the way. The sun glowed bright and warm in the western sky, and the cornstalks that rustled softly in the breeze were a good six feet high. In another few weeks they would be golden and ripe for harvesting.

Suzanne wasted little time in saddling Mocha, and then rode him out across the farmyard to a newly mown alfalfa field. Though there weren't any barrels set up, she imagined invisible barrels. She practiced hurry-up starts; quick, intricate turns; and lead changes as they spun in tight circles. After half an hour's work she felt good. Felt a renewed confidence in her riding ability and the adeptness of her horse.

So yes
, Suzanne told herself
. I'm pretty sure the answer is yes. I'm going to burn some sage, cross my fingers, figure out the feng shui, and enter him on Friday.

Back at the barn, Suzanne gave Mocha a quick rubdown and served up an extra ration of oats for both him and Grommet. Then she was off for home to grab Baxter and take him to his appointment at the vet. He'd been shaking his head the last two days and she suspected there might be an ear infection brewing. Baxter, who was growing gray in the muzzle, was her sweetheart, her one, final connection to Walter. So she wasn't about to take any chances.

*   *   *

B
AXTER
laid his furry head in Suzanne's lap and rolled soft, expressive brown eyes at her. He let out a low
woof
that started in the back of his throat and vibrated all the way down to the tip of his tail. Then he threw a commiserating glance at the fluffy white poodle that occupied the chair next to them. Baxter was not one bit happy about being at the Paws and Claws Veterinary Clinic and he didn't care who knew it.

Suzanne stroked Baxter's graying muzzle, then leaned forward and gave him a kiss. “Five minutes,” she promised. “Let the doctor take one quick peek inside your ears, prescribe a tube of medicine, and then we're outta here.”

Baxter, still hoping to elude the veterinarian's evil clutches, scrambled to his feet, tugged at his leash, and gazed anxiously toward the door.

“No,” Suzanne told him. “Nice try, but not yet.”

Helene, the receptionist, glanced over the top of her desk and said, “It'll just be a couple of minutes. Dr. Sievers is finishing up with a minor surgery.”

“You see?” Suzanne told Baxter. “Nothing to worry about.”

But Baxter was worried. His tail was down and his eyes darted back and forth. He tilted his muzzle upward, gave a sniff, and then tugged even harder on the leash.

“C'mon, Bax,” said Suzanne. “Take it easy.” Truth be known, she was anxious to get going, too. She was due back at the Cackleberry Club at seven for the rehearsal. And she'd promised to honcho things as well as help Petra with the refreshments.

Now the poodle sitting next to them was tugging at his leash, too.

Suzanne stood up, just as Helene said, “Why don't you go into exam room two. Your dog might be more comfortable waiting in there.”

“Thank you,” said Suzanne.

She walked Baxter over to the door that had the number two on it, pushed it open, and then had to physically pull Baxter in.

“What's with you?” she asked. “You're not usually like this.” She sat down on a chair that was positioned right next to a long metal exam table. She figured if she relaxed, Baxter might follow suit.

He did not.

Instead, he walked to the opposite door, which led into the back room of the veterinary clinic, and pawed at it. Then he lay down, sniffed, and came back to her.

Suzanne knew he was trying to tell her something, she just wasn't sure what it was. She spoke limited canine and Baxter's lexicon of English ran more to phrases such as Food, Walk, Out, and Treat. Although Ride and Bed were in there, too.

“What is it, big guy?” Suzanne put her hands on either side of Baxter's head and gazed at him. And that's when she smelled something funny.

Chemicals from the back room?

Suzanne sniffed expectantly. No, that wasn't quite it.

Baxter let out a low, anxious whine.

Probably just burning coffee. Sure, that has to be it.

Baxter's soulful eyes locked on to hers.

Wait a minute,
Suzanne thought, startled.
Burning coffee?
That's what I thought
I smelled when I was at Root 66. That was right before . . .

Her eyes traveled around the room.

A tiny, diaphanous tendril of smoke seemed to waft from beneath the door.

No, it couldn't be. I must be imagining things.

But when another puff of smoke seemed to seep under the door, Suzanne sprang to attention.

But what if . . . 
?

She flew across the exam room and yanked open the door that led to the back office. Smoke billowed up, causing her to choke abruptly and her eyes to burn fiercely.

“Fire!” Suzanne yelled, even as her brain coughed up the thought,
Another fire?
She felt awkward, self-conscious, and terrified all at the same time. Like she'd been caught inside some weird kind of time loop. A déjà vu of sorts.

She stared into the smoke again and suddenly saw Dr. Sievers rush toward her. Cradled in his arms was a basset hound with one bandaged foot.

“Out the front door!” Dr. Sievers ordered. “Everybody out.”

As Suzanne, Baxter, Helene, and the lady with the white poodle scrambled out into the street, Dr. Sievers stopped at the front desk, shifted the dog in his arms, and hastily dialed 911. Once he'd tersely informed the dispatcher about the fire, he ran out the door, too.

Two minutes later the fire department showed up with a roar of engines and clatter of equipment. Half of the firemen rushed into the building, while the other half of the team remained outside, connecting hoses, quickly laying out equipment.

Suzanne glanced about as people ran out of adjacent buildings to see what was going on. The little white poodle was shaking like crazy. Interestingly, Suzanne was not. She just felt a cold, white-hot rage for whoever had caused this mess.

“Did everyone get out okay?” she asked Dr. Sievers. “No pets left behind?”

“Everyone's fine,” he said, still holding the dog.

Then Doogie's cruiser came careening down the street, siren blaring and light bar flashing.

Just as he sprang rather inelegantly from his car, Fire Chief Finley appeared in the door of the clinic and announced that the excitement was over.

“What the heck?” cried Doogie. He charged past Suzanne and Baxter, bumping her hard with his shoulder as he rushed up to talk with Fire Chief Finley. Finley, a short, stocky man in his early fifties, wearing an asbestos coat and a fire hat with an emblem on the front of it, was holding a hand up, trying to calm the gathering crowd.

“Go back to work,” Finley told the inquisitive group. “It's over, just a scare, that's all. Nothing to worry about.”

To Suzanne it felt like more than just a scare. It seemed like an ominous coincidence.

“What happened?” asked Doogie, hastening up the two front steps to confront Chief Finley. Suzanne also wanted to know what had happened, so she and Baxter pressed forward, too.

“Aw, somebody set a heap of rags on fire and then stuck them inside the back door of the vet's office,” said Finley. His eyes were like hard blue marbles and had little puffy bags beneath them. Like little pink pillows.

“You think it was a prank?” said Doogie.

“Possibly,” said Finley. “Probably.”

“It didn't feel like a prank,” said Suzanne.

Both men turned to look at her, startled to find her standing right there, boldly listening in on their conversation.

“You were in there?” Doogie asked.

Suzanne nodded. “Yes, with Baxter here.” At hearing his name, Baxter gave an acknowledging tail wag.

“Hmm,” said Doogie. He was looking at Baxter, but Suzanne could see the wheels turning in his brain.

“Doesn't this seem like a strange coincidence?” she asked. “In light of the fire at the County Services Bureau?”