Scorched Eggs (2 page)

Antsy and nervous now, Suzanne moved forward. She could feel the heat from the fire practically scorching her face, like having a too-close encounter with Petra's industrial-strength broiler back at the Cackleberry Club. What must the firemen be feeling inside, she wondered? What must poor Hannah be going through?

Sheriff Doogie whirled around and saw Suzanne edging up to the barricade.

“Get back!” he yelled, waving a meaty arm. “Everybody, get back!”

Suzanne retreated two paces, and then, when Doogie turned around, when he wasn't looking anymore, she crept back to where she'd been standing.

“Watch out!” cried one of the firemen who was manning a hose and shooting water through one of the front windows. “They're coming out.”

Everyone peered expectantly through the drift of smoke and ashes. And then, like an apparition slowly appearing from a dense fog, the two firemen who'd made the daring foray into the burning building came into view. Their faces were smudged, their eyes red, their respirators dangled around their necks. But they carried a stretcher between them.

“They got her,” Suzanne whispered. Everyone in the crowd behind her seemed to relax and heave a deep sigh of relief.

Sheriff Doogie, who'd been clutching a blue blanket, stepped forward and laid it gingerly over the stretcher.

Thrilled that the firemen had been able to make such a daring rescue, Suzanne pressed even closer. “Is it Hannah?” she asked Doogie. She crept forward expectantly, practically bumping up against his beefy shoulder now. Surely they were going to load Hannah into the waiting ambulance. They'd rush her, lights twirling and sirens blaring, to Mercy Hospital, where Dr. Sam Hazelet, Suzanne's
boyfriend
, Dr. Hazelet, would resuscitate Hannah and tell the old dear what an amazingly close call she'd had.

“Is it Hannah?” Suzanne asked again.

The brim of Doogie's modified Smokey Bear hat barely quivered. A muscle twitched in his tightly clenched jaw.

“Is she . . . ?” Suzanne was about to say
okay.

Doogie turned to her, his eyes sorrowful, his hangdog face registering total dismay. And uttered the two fateful words that Suzanne had not expected to hear: “She's dead.”

B
Y
the time Suzanne got back to the Cackleberry Club on Friday afternoon, Toni and Petra had heard the news about the fire. They were standing in the kitchen, listening to the latest report on the radio, looking bewildered and shaken.

“The whole thing's been on the radio,” Toni cried out. “Tom Wick, one of WLGN's DJs, was downtown when the fire started. So he called in to the
Afternoon Farm Report
and the station broadcast a kind of play-by-play.” Toni was wild-eyed and skittish. Her roaring metabolism kept her sleek as a cat and today her frizzled blond hair was piled atop her head making her look like a show pony. Except that show ponies didn't wear scrunchies, false eyelashes, and coral lip gloss.

“Hearing the whole thing pretty much killed us,” said Petra. She was big-boned and sorrowful in a pink shirt, khaki slacks, and bright green Crocs, clutching and twisting her red-checked apron in her hands as if it were a lifeline. “It was like watching one of those wars in the Middle East broadcast live on CNN.”

“Did they say anything about Hannah?” said Suzanne.

Toni nodded solemnly and Petra, even with her natural stoicism, looked like she was about to cry. None of them were used to having a major disaster like this intrude into their daily lives. Kindred was a sleepy little Midwestern town where you shared coffee and sticky buns with your next-door neighbor, sang hymns in church on Sunday, grew bushel baskets of zucchini, and watched life chug along on a nice even keel.

Nestled in a river valley next to Catawba Creek, their town was, Suzanne often thought, reminiscent of Brigadoon, that wonderful, mythical Scottish village that disappeared into the Highland mist only to emerge every hundred years.

Petra continued to be dazed and more than a little angry. “How could this happen?” she choked out. “Hannah was a member of our
church.
She has grown children.” Her placid, square-boned Scandinavian face shone with outrage.

Suzanne noticed that Petra was already speaking about poor Hannah Venable in the past tense.

“Maybe we should say a prayer or something,” Toni mumbled. A self-proclaimed wild child who favored skintight cowboy shirts, she wasn't a regular churchgoer like Petra, but this occasion seemed to call for a certain degree of solemnity.

“Yes, let's,” urged Petra.

Suzanne quickly glanced through the pass-through. There were three customers still sitting in the café. Two at a table, one at the marble counter. They were all working on their afternoon coffee and apple pie, looking perfectly content.

“Okay,” said Suzanne. “Let's take a few minutes right now. But do it fast.”

“Prayer should never be rushed,” said Petra.

“I think she meant for us to keep it short but sweet,” said Toni. “Really, I'm sure it will be heard.”

“Dear Lord,” said Petra as she bowed her head, “please accept dear Hannah Venable into your Kingdom. Please know that she was a truly good person, kind and gentle, and that she . . .” Petra halted abruptly as tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her face. She bit her lip and shook her head, unable to go on.

“And know that Hannah made the best cherry pie in town,” Toni finished.

“Amen,” said Suzanne. She figured they really did have to wrap this up, since old Mr. Henderson was suddenly standing at the cash register, looking around, waiting to pay his bill. Not only that, she'd just caught a glint of Doogie's cruiser as it rolled into their front parking lot.

Now what?
Suzanne wondered.

*   *   *

L
IKE
a rifle shot, the screen door whapped open hard against the wall and Sheriff Doogie strode into the practically deserted café. His leather utility belt creaked, his broad shoulders were hunched forward, and his gait seemed heavy and dragging. Only his sharp law enforcement eyes betrayed his high level of anger and intensity.

Toni, who was piling dirty dishes into a gray plastic tub, looked up and said to Suzanne, “I have a feeling we won't be closing none too early today.”

Suzanne took one look at Doogie and figured the same thing.

Doogie made a beeline for the end stool at the marble counter. It was his favorite stool, the one that creaked when he sat down and, over the past couple of years, had assumed a distinct list.

Suzanne reached behind her and grabbed a pot of coffee from where it rested on the soda fountain backdrop they'd scrounged from an old drugstore. She filled a ceramic mug for Doogie and slid it across the counter to him. “How are things at the fire?” she asked. But she could tell by the look on his face that the situation wasn't good.

“Terrible,” said Doogie. He took a quick gulp of coffee. “Real bad. The building's a complete disaster and—”

Petra came flying out of the kitchen, shoes clumping, hair sticking up in uncharacteristic spikiness, to interrupt. “Who
cares
about the stupid building?” she demanded. “We want to know about Hannah! Did the poor woman even have a chance?”

Doogie threw a sad, haunted look in her direction and shook his big head. “Probably not. I'm sorry . . .” His voice dropped off to a low mumble.

“Did Hannah burn to death?” Toni asked, edging closer to the group. Toni had a certain fascination with the macabre that wasn't always healthy.

“Toni!” cried Petra. “That's a terrible thought!”

But Doogie hastened to alleviate their fears.

“No, no,” said Doogie, spreading his hands as if to make peace. “The fire chief was pretty sure that Hannah was overcome with smoke first.”

“Which means she suffocated,” said Petra. She gazed at them in horror. “That's a
terrible
way to go.”

“Try not to think of it that way,” said Suzanne. “Try to think of it as Hannah blacking out and not suffering much.”

Petra sniffed and pulled a hankie from her apron pocket. “I can
try
to think about it that way, but it won't be easy.”

“Do they know what caused the fire?” Suzanne asked.

“Was it faulty wiring?” asked Toni. “That was a pretty old building, after all.”

“On the Historic Register,” said Suzanne, recalling the sign she'd been so very lucky to duck behind.

Doogie sucked air through his front teeth and hesitated.

“Doogie, what?” said Suzanne. She knew the sheriff well enough to know when he was stalling. Their battery of questions had caught him a little unprepared.

Doogie scratched at his chin with the back of his hand. “Ah, jeez.” He looked like he was mulling something over in his head.

“What?” said Petra.

“Tell us,” said Toni.

“Fire Chief Finley's working on a couple of things,” said Doogie.

Suzanne cocked her head. “Such as?”

Doogie stared directly at her. “The fire started with a huge burst, right? I mean, you were there. Next door at that beauty salon.”

“It felt like that's the way it happened,” said Suzanne. Sure it had. She'd smelled smoke, run outside, and then,
boom
,
the fire was suddenly raging.

“Did you hear a loud explosion first?” Doogie asked.

“Not really,” said Suzanne.

“What are you thinking?” asked Toni. “That it was a gas main explosion?”

“Not exactly,” said Doogie. He picked up his coffee cup and took a very deliberate sip. Watched out of the corner of his eye as the last customer got up and left.

“There's something else going on here, isn't there?” said Suzanne. “You're already working on a theory.”

Doogie hesitated for a moment. “Fire Chief Finley thought there might have been an accelerant.”

“An accident?” said Petra.

“No, an accelerant,” Doogie repeated.

Toni frowned. “Oh, you mean like the fire accelerated and burned super fast? Like spontaneous combustion?”

“Not exactly,” said Doogie. He looked around as if someone might be listening in. As if they weren't the only ones hunched around the counter at the Cackleberry Club at four in the afternoon. “You ladies have to keep what I tell you under your hats, okay? I mean, you can't be spreading this information all over town.”

“What?” said Suzanne, her heart doing a little flip-flop. Then, when Doogie still seemed hesitant, she spoke the terrible words they'd all been thinking but hadn't wanted to voice. “Are you saying the fire was deliberately set? That it was arson?”

Doogie gave a kind of tight-lipped grimace. “It's looking that way, yes.”

“How would you determine that for sure?” asked Toni.

Doogie frowned. “For one thing, Chief Finley is talking about bringing in an arson investigator.”

“Oh my,” said Toni. “This is serious.”

*   *   *

“
C
RAZY
things like fires and arson aren't supposed to happen in Kindred,” declared Petra.

Sheriff Doogie had departed some fifteen minutes ago, a white bakery bag containing three sticky rolls clutched in his hand. Now the three of them were sitting in the Knitting Nest, trying to sort through and digest Doogie's words. Though he hadn't expanded on his arson theory, or said that he believed it was the absolute gospel truth, he'd certainly tap-danced around the idea.

“If it was arson,” said Toni, “then it was . . .”

“Intentional,” said Suzanne.

“Exactly,” said Petra. “So who would . . . ?” She shook her head and dabbed a hankie to her eyes. For all of Petra's toughness, she was still pretty much in shock.

“Who indeed?” Suzanne murmured. She gazed about the Knitting Nest, the small shop that was adjacent to the café and right next door to their Book Nook. With hundreds of skeins of gorgeous yarn tucked into virtually every corner, and displays of knitting needles and quilt squares, it was a cheery little place. A kind of safe harbor. Women came from all over the tri-county area to settle into the comfy, rump-sprung chairs, work on their latest project, sip tea, and hang out. Generally, the Knitting Nest was Petra's domain. She taught knitting classes several nights a week, always encouraging her knitters with smiles and creative suggestions on new stitches and techniques. And the colorful shawls, wraps, and sweaters she'd whipped up herself were artfully displayed on the walls.

But today Petra's heart was truly broken. And no kind words would mend it, no pair of smooth bamboo knitting needles would soften the look of despair on her face.

“We have to do something,” Petra said finally.

Toni hunched her shoulders. “Do what? That's easy to wish for from the cozy environs of the Knitting Nest, but how would we even begin to make things right?”

“Well, we probably can't do
that
,” said Petra. “Since the damage has already been done and Hannah is dead. But we can certainly do something about finding her some justice.”

“How about revenge?” said Toni. She prided herself on her feistiness. “That sounds good to me.”

“You know what?” said Suzanne. “There
is
something we can do.”

“Thank you, Suzanne,” said Petra.

“Whatcha got in mind?” said Toni.

Suzanne held up a finger. “We can wait patiently until Doogie and Fire Chief Finley bring a professional arson investigator into town. An expert who can analyze the ashes and cinders and everything else and tell us what really happened. After all, it could have been an accident. We don't know for sure that it was arson. Doogie was really just . . . speculating.”

“So we do nothing?” Petra sounded shocked. “But . . .”

“Arson just sounds awfully drastic,” said Suzanne. “Especially for the County Services Bureau.” She was suddenly pinning all her hopes on a logical explanation for today's fire.

“I don't know,” said Toni. “Arson's not all that tricky to pull off. Any dunce can do it. Heck, Junior once stuffed some greasy old car rags in a coffee can and then lit up a Lucky Strike.” Junior was Toni's estranged husband and not the brightest bulb in the box.

“Good heavens,” said Petra. “What happened?”

“The dang rags pretty much exploded right in his face and the flames singed his eyebrows off is what happened,” said Toni. “Burned those furry little caterpillars right off his face.”

“I remember that particular mishap,” said Suzanne. “Junior had to use an eyebrow pencil for months just to look normal.”

“But he always used too much,” said Toni. “And ended up looking like a Groucho Marx impersonator.”

“Sometimes I think that husband of yours isn't quite right in the head,” said Petra. She was sitting in a rocking chair, slowly picking nonexistent fuzz off her slacks.

“What do you expect?” said Toni. “The poor guy suffers from DDT.”

“Don't you mean ADD?” said Suzanne.

“Yeah, that, too,” said Toni.

“Petra,” said Suzanne, glancing at her friend, who was slouching even deeper in her chair, “you look like you're headed into a deep blue funk.”

“I think I am,” said Petra. “Because I . . .” She seemed to want to say more, but stopped herself by tightly clenching her jaw.

Toni jumped up from her chair and scurried over to fling her arms around Petra. “Don't funk out on us, honey. Please try to think of something upbeat or happy.”

“Like what?” said Petra. “When all I really want . . .”

“For one thing,” said Toni, “tomorrow is Kit's big wedding day. I know you've been looking forward to that. We all have.”

Kit Kaslik was a sometime Cackleberry Club employee that Suzanne and Petra had rescued from her former job as an exotic dancer at Hoobly's Roadhouse, a disreputable bar out on County Road 18. Kit, now pregnant, was marrying her fiancé, Ricky Wilcox, tomorrow in an outdoor ceremony at Founder's Park. They'd all been looking forward to the wedding and, to celebrate the joyful event, Petra had even promised to bake a truly spectacular wedding cake.