Scorched Eggs (22 page)

“Not yet, but Doogie was in before and seemed pretty cranked up about it.”

“He should be. Gandle seems to have taken it upon himself to be Kindred's very own muckraking journalist.”

“Not what we need,” said Suzanne. She lingered at his table, loving that he was enjoying his lunch, but worried that she
was
indulging him. “So, do we still have plans to go to the parade tonight?” she asked. “Because Toni was wondering.”
And so am I.

“Sure,” said Sam, in between bites. “I'll stop by and pick you up. What time's good?”

“Seven?” said Suzanne.

Sam suddenly scrunched up his face. “Ooh.”

“What's wrong? Too much pepper sauce?”

“No, there's just something I have to do. Would it be okay if I met you there?”

“Sure,” said Suzanne, wondering what was so important. “Maybe . . . in front of the bakery?”

“You got it,” said Sam.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
was nibbling at a meatball and Toni was loading dirty dishes into the dishwasher when there was a knock at the back door.

“Open,” called Petra.

“Can I come in?” asked a girl's voice.

“It's Kit,” said Toni. “Yeah, come on in, honey.”

Kit's blond head appeared in the doorway, and then she popped into the kitchen, looking cool and breezy in a pale green sundress. “Am I too early?” she asked.

“For what?” Toni asked, looking befuddled. “Lunch is over. And you weren't supposed to work today anyway.”

“You're right on time,” Petra told Kit. Then to Toni she said, “Kit volunteered to deliver my pies to the judging committee.”

“That's it?” said Kit. “Just pies?”

“A rhubarb pie and a cherry pie,” said Petra. “As well as a loaf of banana bread.” She glanced at Suzanne. “You already filled out the entry forms?”

“Got them right here,” said Suzanne. “Forged with your very own signature.” She grabbed the forms from one of the kitchen shelves and handed them to Kit.

“It's really kind of you to do this,” said Petra. “I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem,” said Kit. “You've all been so nice and supportive of me . . .” Her smile faltered and she suddenly seemed ready to dissolve into tears.

“What?” Petra asked in a gentle voice.

Kit shook her head. “It's nothing.”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that,” said Petra.

“Aw . . . it's Ricky. You know he's still on Sheriff Doogie's suspect list.”

“Along with quite a few others,” said Suzanne. “I really don't think you should take it all that personally. Doogie's just doing his job. Following leads, eliminating suspects and all.”

“Then I wish he'd hurry up and eliminate Ricky,” put in Toni. “Seeing that he's Kit's fiancé and almost husband. And by the way, what's the status on Ricky shipping out?”

“He's still in a holding pattern,” said Kit. “He can't go with his National Guard unit because he's been forbidden to leave town.”

“I'm sure this whole mystery will be solved in a matter of days,” said Suzanne.

“Really?” said Kit.

“You think?” said Toni.

“I do,” said Suzanne. At least she
hoped
it would be. She hoped that Doogie would finally pull the voting booth lever. That he'd figure it all out and make an arrest. So everyone could get on with their lives.

“Okay,” said Petra. She nestled her rhubarb pie into a cardboard box alongside her cherry pie and loaf of banana bread, and then covered it all with an embroidered tea towel. “Off it goes. Fingers crossed.”

Kit gently set the entry forms on top. “I'll take everything right over to the Home Arts Building,” she said.

“Careful,” said Petra, as Kit picked up the box. She was hovering like a mother hen.

“I'll get the door for you,” said Toni, doing a stutter step and lurching for the back door. But before she could get a hand on the knob, the door swung open and Junior appeared.

“I got it, I got it,” said Junior, pulling the door wide open and stepping aside for Kit to pass. “Headed for the fair, huh? Yeah, I just dropped my stuff off, too.” He sounded chirpy and upbeat. As if he didn't have a care in the world—which he probably didn't.

“You entered your homemade beer?” Toni asked as Junior stepped inside the kitchen. He was dressed in his summer duds today. Lighter, baggier denim jeans and a scruffy orange T-shirt that said Hot Stuff on the front of it. A pack of Camel cigarettes was rolled up in his right sleeve. When he shrugged his dark forelock off his face, he looked like a frighteningly bad reincarnation of James Dean.

“I just took a dozen bottles of Hubba Bubba beer over to the fairgrounds,” Junior proclaimed. “For their craft beer competition.” He grinned like a crazed jack-o'-lantern. “The judging's first thing tomorrow morning and I figure I'm gonna blow everyone's socks off. The judges have never tasted the likes of my brew.”

“Looks like we'll be rooting for both you and Petra,” said Toni.

“Ha!” said Junior, grinning at Petra. “How much you bet we
both
walk away with blue ribbons!”

“We'll see,” Petra murmured.

“I got another sideline going, too,” said Junior. “In fact I got me part of a booth in that new Merchandise Mart.”

“The Merchandise Mart,” said Petra. “Didn't that used to be the old Swine Building?”

“Yeah, well, they cleaned it up,” said Junior. “Aired it out.”

“By ‘sideline' you're talking one of your harebrained schemes,” said Toni. “Which means I'm a little afraid to ask for any details.”

“Ask,” said Petra. “The suspense is killing me.”

Junior dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a piece of tinfoil. He proceeded to unfold it, puff it out, and place it directly on top of his head.

“Stupid,” said Toni. She was referring either to Junior or the ridiculous silver thing covering his head. Or both.

“Are you planning to serve popcorn in that thing?” asked Petra. Junior's headgear looked like a cross between a poufy silver shower cap and a pan of already-popped Jiffy Pop.

Toni tried to snatch the contraption off his head, but Junior backed away. “Where'd you get that dumb thing anyway?” she asked.

“George Duffert is selling them,” said Junior, reaching up to straighten it out. “His wife makes them and he heads up the sales and marketing team. They got a regular cottage industry going.”

“They sound like a couple of crackpots,” said Toni.

“What are your tinfoil hats for anyway?” asked Suzanne. Didn't a new product have to address a particular need? Wasn't that Marketing 101?

“They're basically all-purpose,” said Junior, comfortable now that he was launching into his sales patois. “Protection against UV rays, gamma rays, meteor showers, sunspots, you name it.”

“Wait a minute,” said Suzanne. “Isn't George Duffert the guy who claims to have seen a whole bunch of UFOs?”

“He
did
see them!” exclaimed Junior. “Said there was a whole flotilla hovering over a wheat field outside of town. Just glowing in the night sky and sort of scoping things out.”

“And now he's pawned this crap off on you,” said Toni. “Well, whoop-de-doodle-do.”

“That's no way to talk to a regional sales manager,” huffed Junior.

“Regional sales manager of what?” asked Suzanne.

“Doomsday Incorporated,” Junior declared proudly.

“Jeez, Junior,” said Toni. “How can you be so stupid?”

“I'll have you know,” said Junior, “that when I attended that automotive trade school over in Jessup my GPA was 3.0.”

“Hah,” scoffed Toni. “That was probably your blood alcohol!”

S
UZANNE
wandered through the Book Nook and into her office, a copy of the
Bugle
tucked under her arm. It was three in the afternoon and she was debating whether she should unpack and shelve a newly delivered case of books or just veg out at her desk and read the paper.

Vegging won out. Of course, the mug of fresh-brewed chamomile tea she had in her hand didn't hurt, either.

Slouched in her leather desk chair, Suzanne breathed in deeply and smiled. It took a lot of work to keep the Cackleberry Club alive and thriving, but she wouldn't have it any other way. Yes, she was a stickler for fresh, locally sourced ingredients. But fresh cheeses, eggs, vegetables, and hormone-free meat just tasted better. And, of course, it was better for you.

Suzanne liked to tell her customers that the Cackleberry Club served comfort food that had been kicked up a couple of notches. Not just a cheese omelet, but an omelet topped with melted baby Swiss cheese and fresh-picked butter-fried morels. Not just fried chicken, but oven-baked chicken that had been slathered with Petra's herb and homemade bread crumb mix. Both she and Petra worked hard to keep everything fresh and organic. No preservatives, antibiotics, added BHT, or factory processing. In other words, they were sneaky gourmets.

Taking a sip of tea, Suzanne spread the newspaper on her desk and shook her head at the sensational headline:
Blaze Blasts Downtown, 1 Dead!

One dead. No, it wasn't just one dead, she told herself. It was one wife, one friend, one sister, one cousin that was dead. Hannah Venable had been dearly loved by many people. As such, she deserved a far better mention than
1 Dead.

Suzanne skimmed the article, aware that Gandle had tried to punch it up as hard as he could. The only place his story wavered was when it came to actually naming suspects. Obviously, Doogie couldn't come right out and say that Jack Venable, Ricky Wilcox, Marty Wolfson, and Darrel Fuhrman were all viable suspects. But Gandle had talked to people and cadged rumors from all over town, so he made some fairly broad hints.

Gandle had taken pictures, too. On the front page was a fairly dramatic black-and-white photo of the burning building, right at the height of the blaze. Suzanne turned to page three where the story continued and found two smaller photos. One of them, strangely enough, was a photo taken at Hope Church. The hearse was featured prominently in the shot, and in the background were the mourners, filing out of church.

She leaned forward, studying the picture, wondering idly if she'd be able to recognize anyone.

Turns out she could.

Besides herself, Toni, Petra, and Jenny Probst, she recognized a sea of familiar faces. As well as one singular face in the lower-right corner of the photo. It was Darrel Fuhrman. She'd almost swear to it.

“Hello, Darrel,” she murmured. “What are you doing here?”

Suzanne pondered this question for a few moments and decided there were several possibilities. Fuhrman could be somehow related to Hannah, though that seemed a little far-fetched. He could be a friend of Jack Venable's, or he could be a weird looky-loo, a funeral freak.

The final possibility was that Fuhrman had attended the funeral because he wanted to somehow remain involved with Hannah Venable right to the bitter end.

Which would point to what? To Fuhrman having set the fire? To Fuhrman having a beef against Hannah? Had Fuhrman set the fire and then felt regret over Hannah's death?

None of those thoughts were particularly pleasant. Plus it felt like time was slipping away. Suzanne knew that if Hannah's murder wasn't solved fairly soon, it could get put on the back burner and never be solved.

Suzanne took a sip of tea. Suddenly, what had tasted bright and sweet now tasted bitter and flat. She knew it wasn't really the tea that had changed, it was her frame of mind.

What to do?
Suzanne wondered, tapping her fingers against the desk. She leaned back in her chair and let her eyes be drawn to one of Petra's needlepoints that hung on the wall.

The colorful needlepoint was just a simple quote. It said,
Fill your heart with what's important and be done with all the rest.

Suzanne ruminated on that. What
was
important to her? Sam, of course. Solving this arson case. Getting justice for Hannah. And the Cackleberry Club and her friends.

She and Sam would figure out where they were going as time went on. But Hannah . . . that problem needed to be kicked into high gear. So maybe she should investigate Darrel Fuhrman a little more thoroughly. Which meant she probably had to have a sit-down with Chief Finley.

If he'll even talk to me, that is.

Suzanne popped out of her chair and scurried through the kitchen, where Toni and Petra were finishing up for the day.

“Are you taking off?” called Petra.

“You're leaving us?” asked Toni.

Suzanne snatched up her box and grabbed her handbag off a peg. “See you guys tonight at the parade,” she called back over her shoulder just as the door whapped shut behind her.

*   *   *

C
HIEF
Mulford Finley wasn't one bit pleased to see Suzanne. Yet, sitting behind his wide expanse of desk, staring across at her, he put on a fairly good show.

“You're here about the fire,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

“In a way, yes,” said Suzanne. “But I'm more interested in learning a few more details about a particular, um . . . shall we say, suspect?”

Finley reached for a fat black pen and centered it carefully, buying time. Suzanne waited patiently.

“Who might that be?” said Finley. Of course, he knew the answer.

“Darrel Fuhrman,” said Suzanne. “I know you're aware that he's on Sheriff Doogie's short list. As far as suspects go.”

“Fuhrman is no longer employed by this department,” said Finley.

“That's right,” Suzanne said. “And I'd like to know why.”

“His personnel records are sealed.”

Suzanne decided the pleasantries were over. “Gimme a break,” she said. “I'm not trying to con you out of his social security number or get details on his pension fund. I just need a few simple answers.”

Finley shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. “Fuhrman was problematic.”

“In what way?”

“Oh . . . attitude, attendance, a lot of small things that added up to him being a constant pain in the butt.”

“Okay,” said Suzanne. Now they were getting somewhere. “So he was fired.”

“Let's just say we came to a mutual agreement,” said Finley.

“Severance pay was involved,” said Suzanne. She knew how it worked.

“Generous severance pay,” said Finley.

Suzanne figured Finley had bought Fuhrman off so the man wouldn't come back at the department and launch a wrongful termination lawsuit. In the long run, it probably made sense.

“Do you think Fuhrman had problems outside of work?” Suzanne asked.

Finley lifted a hand. “Possibly.”

“Do you think Fuhrman might have had a hand in last Friday's fire?”

“You're asking me if I think he maliciously set that fire,” said Finley. His nose twitched and he made a face. “I've given that quite a bit of thought, as you might imagine, and, in the end, I'd have to say no. We're talking a Class A-1 felony since there was a related death. I never saw that in Fuhrman. That sort of uncontrollable rage.”

Related death, Suzanne thought. Now Hannah was being referred to as a related death. The phrase wasn't just cringe-worthy, it made her nauseous.

Suzanne pressed ahead anyway. “But do you think Fuhrman had an unhealthy attitude concerning fires?”

Finley stared at her with the unblinking façade of an old turtle. “Are you asking me if Fuhrman is a pyromaniac?”

“Okay, yes. Let's lay it on the table. Is he a pyromaniac?”

“Again, I'd have to say no,” said Finley. “Sheriff Doogie asked me that very same question and I told him probably not. Fuhrman resents authority, appears to have societal problems, and didn't get along all that well with the other men, but I've never seen a single clue that would point to that type of truly antisocial behavior. You have to understand that true pyromania is a type of impulse disorder. On a par with kleptomania or compulsive gambling.”

“Gambling,” said Suzanne. Was it just two nights ago that she and Toni had seen Fuhrman at the Prairie Star Casino? Yes, it was. Sitting at the blackjack table, looking angry, drinking, and throwing down chips.

“Well,” said Finley. “Did I answer your question?”

Not really
, Suzanne thought to herself.
But you sure fanned the flames.

“Yes,” she said, standing up to leave. “Thank you for your time.”

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
was deep in thought when she left Chief Finley's office.

How interesting that pyromania and compulsive gambling reside on the same impulse disorder spectrum.

As she drove across town, heading for home, she wondered what else might be on that spectrum.

Baby steps toward becoming a sociopath?

She also wondered about the mind-set of someone who would deliberately set a fire. Were they frenzied or coolly in control? Were they arrogant about their crime or a trembling neophyte turned on by the prospect of creating a raging inferno?

So many questions, but not many answers. Yet.

The dogs were crazed to see her. Baxter administered sloppy, wet kisses while Scruff spun in tight circles, like a circus performer. When they finally calmed down, Suzanne poured each of them a heaping bowl of kibbles and gave them bowls of fresh, cold water. And then, because she was going to go out again for the evening, she snapped leashes on their collars and took them for a meandering fifteen-minute walk.

When Suzanne returned home, she changed into her favorite pair of blue jeans—the ones that made her thighs look skinny and her legs longer than they really were—and shrugged into a pink cotton sweater. She splashed water on her face, ran a brush through her hair, and added a dab of Dior pink lipstick.

A few minutes later, she dashed out the door. The parade was scheduled to start at seven and she had barely fifteen minutes to spare. She drove along Magnolia Street, turned at Lawndale, and coasted into downtown Kindred.

Of course, the Public Works Department had put up signs prohibiting any parking on Main Street. It hadn't occurred to Suzanne that parked vehicles would obstruct the view of the parade, so driving slowly, because there were hundreds of people milling around now, she had to circle back behind the bakery and nose into a tight parking space a good three blocks away.

I should have walked. It would have been simpler.

Suzanne rounded the corner, the bakery almost in sight, when she ran smack-dab into Toni and Junior.

“Hey, girlfriend!” said Toni, greeting her.

“Huzzah,” said Junior. “Whither thou goest?”

Suzanne stopped dead in her tracks. “What?”

Toni did a quick eye roll. “Junior got wind that the next play the Kindred Community Players might put on is Shakespearean, and he's got a mind to audition.”

Junior nodded. “Thine shalt not tarry.”

“I'll tarry you,” said Toni.

“Cometh, mine wench,” said Junior.

“Have you seen Sam around?” Suzanne asked. “He was supposed to meet me in front of the bakery.”

“I don't know,” said Toni, glancing around. “There are so many people downtown tonight . . . oh, hey!” She pointed. “There he is.”

Suzanne turned and saw Sam threading his way through the crowd. He saw her, raised a hand in greeting, and then he was right there, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “Sorry I'm late,” he said.

“You're right on time,” said Suzanne, smiling as her heart pitter-pattered. Yes, she'd just seen him at lunch, but gosh, that was almost seven whole hours ago. She needed her love fix.

“Hey there,” Sam said, nodding to Toni and Junior.

“Howdy,” said Toni.

“Huzzah, good sir,” said Junior.

“Excuse me?” said Sam.

“I think Richard III here just gave you a friendly greeting,” said Toni. As Sam looked puzzled, they all four strolled toward the curb, the better to get a clear view of the parade.

“So what's this all about?” Sam asked Suzanne. “Will there be elephants and other exotic creatures prancing down the street?”

“You've never been to a county fair parade before, have you?” said Suzanne.

Sam shook his head no.

“It's more likely a couple of Percherons will be pulling a beer wagon,” Suzanne laughed. “That's about as exotic as it gets.”

“They're coming!” Toni suddenly squealed. “I can feel it. I can feel that big bass drum thumping inside my stomach.”

“It's probably gas from the pepperoni pizza we nuked,” said Junior.

But it really was the parade, rolling like a tidal wave of color and pageantry down Main Street.

The Kindred High School marching band had the honor of leading the parade. Two majorettes, wearing sparkly leotards and white boots, twirled their batons, tossed them high into the air, and then caught them between their fingers with graceful ease. The kids in their red and blue wool band uniforms, faces all red and sweaty, played their little hearts out as they managed a swing version of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Next up were a few floats. Kuyper's Hardware was represented with a tractor pulling a flatbed trailer piled with stainless steel appliances. The Prairie Star Casino had a float with a giant roulette wheel, huge red dice, a few provocative-looking casino hostesses giving friendly waves, and a sign that said, Come and Play!

“Yeah!” yelled Junior.

“Eeyu,” said Toni.

A tropical float carried six youthful queen candidates dolled up in prom dresses and corsages, their backdrop a mash-up of surfboards, fake palm trees, and a giant plastic parrot.