Scorched Eggs (6 page)

“So he would be the one to inherit if something happened to her?” said Suzanne.

“Substantially inherit,” said Doogie.

“It seems to me,” said Suzanne, “that a father wouldn't put his own child in that kind of danger.”

Doogie looked up at her. “The kid wasn't supposed to be there. He was supposed to be in nursery school, but he stayed home because of a cold.”

“That does change things,” said Suzanne.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
left Doogie to finish his ham and cheese. She and Toni did their whirling, twirling ballet, setting tables, readying the café for lunch, and seating a few early customers.

Once everyone had been escorted to a table and Toni was busy taking orders, Suzanne grabbed Petra. She dragged her out into the café and shoved her into the Knitting Nest with Doogie.

Five minutes later, as Suzanne was grilling onions and red peppers at the stove, Petra returned. She looked nervous but relieved.

“All done with your talk?” Suzanne asked.

Petra gave a weak smile. “For now anyway. Doogie said he might have to ask me some more questions later.”

“Everything went okay? I mean, he didn't rush you or pressure you or put words in your mouth?”

“He was a little brusque at first,” said Petra. “But when he saw I was on the verge of tears, he kind of eased up.”

“Tears,” said Suzanne. “One of those weapons in our female arsenal that usually works. Well, at least ninety percent of the time anyway.”

Toni pushed into the kitchen with a handful of orders. “Not anymore it doesn't. I'd put our odds at about fifty percent now. In case you haven't noticed, men have changed.”

“You think?” said Petra.

“Oh yeah,” said Toni. “They're onto us big-time.”

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
cut a whopping slice of pecan pie and carried it out to Doogie.

When he saw it, his eyes danced with happiness. “Now that's what I call getting a piece of the pie,” he enthused.

She laid down a clean fork and gingham napkin and said, “So? What do you think? About what Petra told you about Jack Venable, I mean.”

“It's an angle,” said Doogie.

“Isn't the husband often the guilty party in the death of a spouse?”

Doogie shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “That's sometimes the case.”

“Does that mean you're going to take a careful look at him?”

“If you're asking me if I'm going to question Jack Venable, the answer is yes,” said Doogie. “But I was going to do that anyway.”

“Really?” said Suzanne. And then, because her curiosity had been piqued, she said, “Why?”

“If it was arson,” said Doogie, “and it's looking like it is, I need to ask Jack if he knew anyone who might have had a beef with Hannah. Or with him, for that matter.”

“So just the usual run-of-the-mill questions?”

“Yeah, except now there's a different aspect to it.”

“The possible divorce aspect.”

“The operant word being ‘possible,'” said Doogie. “Since we don't really know what went on between them.”

“But you heard what Petra said. And you saw that she was genuinely upset, so she wasn't just making her story up.”

Doogie leaned back and loosened his belt. Suzanne suspected he let loose a suppressed belch, too.

“When you've got your domestic-type situation,” said Doogie, “you never know what to expect. Most of the time it's fairly cut-and-dried. Somebody gets angry and calls the cops. But once in a while, a woman will call 911 and claim that her man is beating on her. Then, when we show up, she does a total switcheroo and is ready to claw
our
eyes out if we make a move to haul him away.”

“That's crazy,” said Suzanne.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of law enforcement.”

“Do you have anyone else you're looking at?” asked Suzanne. “Besides that Wolfson guy and, now, Jack Venable?”

Doogie took another bite of pie and chewed thoughtfully.

Suzanne knew him well enough to read his body language. “So there is someone else.”

“Ah . . .”

“Come on,” said Suzanne. “I'm hip-deep in this thing already. You can tell me.”

“There's this other guy. I don't think you know him. Darrel Fuhrman.”

“I do kind of know him.”

“Good-looking guy,” said Doogie. “Tools around town in that candy apple red Jeep Grand Cherokee.”

Suzanne nodded. She'd seen him at the fire yesterday.

“Well, Fuhrman got let go from the fire department a couple of months ago.”

“Why?”

“What they call disciplinary measures.”

“I get that,” said Suzanne. “But why exactly?”

“I don't know the full story, that's why I'm meeting with Chief Finley in a couple of hours. Who knows? Fuhrman might have had a bone to pick.”

“If he intentionally set yesterday's fire that would have been an awfully big bone,” said Suzanne. She paused. “You know he was at the fire yesterday, watching the whole thing.”

“Fuhrman was?”

“Kind of interesting, huh? At the time I wondered why he wasn't suited up with the other guys.”

“Now you know,” said Doogie.

“Maybe there's more to know.” She reached for his plate and said, “So now you've got three people to investigate.”

Doogie lifted a shoulder. “Looks like.”

Something in his tone made Suzanne hesitate. “Dear Lord, don't tell me there's someone else?
Another
suspect?”

Doogie's gray eyes grew hard as steel pennies. “Maybe, maybe not. But we had a kind of strange tip called in. So I've got to check on a couple of things.”

B
Y
noon, the café was almost full, with just one single table left.

“We're selling those pita sandwiches like crazy,” Toni said as she buzzed past Suzanne.

“Good,” said Suzanne. “Maybe we'll run out soon and we can get out of here at a reasonable hour.”

“Gotta start our beauty routine. Hair, nails, makeup, the works.”

“Listen,” said Suzanne. “Are you planning to wear a real fancy dress?”

“I thought I'd wear that peach-colored sheath that you told me you liked,” said Toni. “The one that makes me look like a morning anchorwoman for a Southern TV station.”

“Sounds perfect. You think I'm okay with my black dress?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't you be? You worried that it's too witchy?”

“No, it's just . . .”

The café door opened and Suzanne saw Mayor Mobley's face peep around it. She quickly put a smile on her face, ready to greet him. Mobley wasn't her most favorite person in the whole world—he was a little too greasy, a little too artless in his dealings, and way too slick for a politician. But he was a customer, nevertheless.

Then Suzanne's smile turned to stunned surprise when she saw the man who was with Mobley.

Bruce Winthrop! The same Bruce Winthrop who'd served as county agent all these years. The same Bruce Winthrop who, just yesterday afternoon, had tried to run in and rescue Hannah Venable. And then had been stunned beyond words as he stood helplessly by and watched the tragic ending along with everyone else.

Suzanne's heart immediately went out to Winthrop. Here he was, looking beyond middle-aged and shaky, as if he'd aged ten years overnight. And the sad expression on his face pretty much announced that he'd lost someone very dear to him.

“Good morning, Mayor,” said Suzanne.

Mayor Mobley responded with a perfunctory, “Morning, Suzanne.”

“Bruce,” said Suzanne, gazing up into Winthrop's hangdog face, seeing his watery blue eyes looking sad and mournful, “I'm so sorry about Hannah. I know you two worked together for a long time.”

Winthrop managed a faint smile. “Six years,” he said in a papery voice. “And thank you, Suzanne. Your words mean a lot to me.”

Suzanne led them to the last available table and, as Winthrop dropped heavily into his chair, she said, “How are you doing, really? How are you holding up?”

“To be perfectly honest, Suzanne, it's been difficult,” said Winthrop. “This is about the worst thing I've ever experienced. To have poor Hannah killed and our building completely gutted and burned to the ground . . .” He hesitated, looking utterly bereft.

“I'm so sorry,” said Suzanne. She patted Winthrop on the shoulder and he gave her an appreciative nod. “If there's anything I can do to help . . .”

“You could start by getting us some coffee,” said Mobley.

“Of course,” said Suzanne. She hastened over to the counter, grabbed a pot of her best French roast, and headed back to their table.

“Thank you,” said Winthrop as Suzanne poured his coffee. “You're awfully kind.”

But Mobley seemed vexed. With his burgundy golf shirt stretched tight across his stomach and his chubby face with deep-set, piggy eyes, he seemed mostly immune to Winthrop's sadness.

“Don't you worry,” said Mobley. “We'll find the culprit. All of us in government are anxious to get this sorted out.” He ran a pudgy hand across his bad comb-over. “A situation like this is bad for the town. Bad for bidness.” The word “bidness” rolled off his tongue as if he'd just watched the latest Jay-Z rap video.

“I know Sheriff Doogie's doing his best,” put in Suzanne.

“We
all
are,” said Mobley.

“The thing is,” said Winthrop, still looking bereft, “all our records were lost. Everything's completely gone. It's . . . incomprehensible.”

“You didn't have your paperwork backed up on computer?” said Suzanne.

“Everything
was
backed up on the computers,” said Winthrop. “But the doggone computers are fried. We haven't been able to salvage a single one.”

“No cloud computing?” said Suzanne.

Winthrop just shook his head sadly. “I kept putting in requests for additional funding, but . . .” He shrugged. “With the old technology we were working with, we were lucky to have Windows 95.”

Mobley glanced sharply at Suzanne. “I'll have the tuna melt.”

“And you, Bruce?” said Suzanne. “What can I bring you?”

“Just a bowl of soup,” said Winthrop.

Suzanne went into the kitchen and said, “I need one more tuna and a soup. And I think that's going to be the last of the orders. Toni wants to lock the front door in about twenty minutes and put up our Closed sign.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Petra. She smeared tuna salad on two slices of bread, added cheese, and popped them under the broiler. Then she ladled out a bowl of tomato soup.

“How's your cake coming?”

“See for yourself,” said Petra. She stepped aside and there, sitting on the back counter, were three layers, stacked up and iced with white frosting. They glistened and gleamed in the light, holding the promise of a beautiful wedding cake, the kind of cake that dreams are made of.

“Wow!” said Suzanne. “So far, so good. I can't wait to see what you do with the other two layers. I guess that's the tricky decorating part.”

“Huh, with my trusty pastry bag I can squirt out two dozen roses in under ten minutes.”

“Is that what you're going to do? Roses?”

“That and a few other things,” said Petra. “I'll use my star tips and leaf tips. Maybe do some ruffled fondant and edge each layer with beading.”

“Amazing,” said Suzanne. She picked up the two orders and hurried out to deliver them.

Five minutes later found Suzanne in the Book Nook. She was hunched over the counter, tallying up the price of three books that Cheryl Tanner, one of their regulars, had picked out.

“You're going to like this book on tea parties,” Suzanne told Cheryl.

“I was thinking of trying to do a tea party on my own,” she said. “Not that I'm trying to go into competition with you, of course,” she hastened to explain.

“If you did, it wouldn't bother me a bit.” Once they'd been open for a few months, Suzanne had introduced the idea—and the decorum—of afternoon tea. After the detritus from lunch was cleared away, the Cackleberry Club was transformed into a cozy little tearoom that looked like it might have been airlifted in from the Cotswolds in England. White linen tablecloths decorated the battered wood tables. A crazy quilt of cups and saucers, small plates, silver spoons, and butter knives was laid out. Tiny vigil lights were placed inside glass tea warmers and topped with chintz-decorated teapots.

And the women of Kindred had willingly embraced the notion of afternoon tea, loving the bone china cups, finger sandwiches, and Old World gentility à la
Downton Abbey.
Sometimes their afternoon tea offerings were as simple as Chinese black tea and a scone with Devonshire cream. But when they catered an event, Petra created three-tiered trays overflowing with tiny triangle sandwiches that boasted fillings such as crab salad, dilled egg salad, and basil-pesto cream cheese.

“Suzanne?”

Suzanne had just handed the books and change to Cheryl when Bruce Winthrop walked in. He smiled sadly as Cheryl scurried past him.

“Bruce,” said Suzanne. “You look absolutely beat.”

Winthrop nodded. “I am, but I'm trying to stay positive. I've been getting a lot of support from the community . . .” He favored her with a grateful smile. “Especially from friends like you.”

“I meant what I said before. If there's anything I can do.”

Bruce seemed to hesitate, then made up his mind to go ahead.

“Maybe there is, Suzanne,” said Winthrop. “I know you're awfully friendly with Sheriff Doogie.”

“I think he mostly drops by for Petra's sticky buns and chocolate donuts.”

Winthrop moved a step closer to her. “And I know you're in a unique position to hear things. Heck, half the people in Kindred pass through your doors every week.” He was stammering a little now.

“Are you asking me to keep my eyes and ears open?” said Suzanne.

He smiled gratefully. “Could you? Would you?”

“You know I will,” Suzanne said without hesitation. “If I hear anything, anything at all, I'll be sure to let you know. And the sheriff, too.”

Winthrop let loose a long sigh of relief. “Thank you, Suzanne. I wasn't sure if I should talk to you about this or not. But I remembered how instrumental you were in helping Sheriff Doogie figure out that awful thing up in the cemetery.”

“Luck,” said Suzanne.

“Smarts,” said Winthrop. He looked profoundly relieved, and his shoulders seemed to relax some. “So thank you. I appreciate
any
help you're able to lend.”

“I haven't done anything yet,” said Suzanne, her heart going out to him again. “But I'm going to try. And just so you feel better, you're not the first one to ask for my help.”

Bruce Winthrop held up his right hand. His middle finger was crossed over his index finger. “Good to know,” he said. “And thanks.” Then he gave a wan smile and disappeared.

*   *   *

W
HAT
a sad state of affairs
, Suzanne thought to herself. She was poking a broom under one of the tables, trying to snag a few errant crumbs. Poor Hannah was dead, Bruce was all bent out of shape and maybe even dealing with a case of survivor's remorse, and Sheriff Doogie was trying to track down any number of so-so suspects and question them. At this moment in time, even though she and her partners were doing the odious task of cleaning up, she felt quite happy and satisfied to be the proprietor of the Cackleberry Club. In fact, she thanked her lucky stars that she wasn't one of the town's politicos or first responders. That she hadn't had to deal with the fire—or the aftermath of the fire—knowing that Hannah hadn't survived.

No, indeed, running the Cackleberry Club suited her just fine. And even with the downturn in the economy, they'd managed to hold their own rather well, thank you very much. She wasn't sure if their continued prosperity was due to their breakfasts and lunches, afternoon tea, the Book Nook, or the Knitting Nest. Whatever the magic formula was, everything seemed to be working in sync.

Suzanne straightened up, looked around, and smiled.

There, almost done.

A knock at the front door caused her smile to fade just a little. She walked over and called through the lace curtains, “I'm sorry, but we're closed.”

The knock sounded again.

Is Doogie my persistent visitor? Has he come back for some reason?

Suzanne swept the lace curtains aside only to find Gene Gandle staring in at her. Gandle not only wrote feature stories for the
Bugle
, he also handled ad sales, classifieds, sports, and obituaries, not necessarily in that order. His last feature story had been about a bull that had escaped from a pen and trapped a farmer inside his barn for nearly two days.

Gandle held up a hand and made a spinning gesture. “Gotta talk to you, Suzanne.” His voice sounded hollow through the door. He also sounded upset.

Reluctantly, knowing she probably shouldn't, Suzanne unlatched the door and let Gandle in.

“What?” she said.

“And a fine afternoon to you, too,” said Gandle. He looked skinnier and goofier than usual and acted as if he was all jacked up.

“What do you want, Gene?” Since it was too late for lunch, Suzanne figured Gandle was here to pump her for a few newsworthy tidbits.

“The big fire,” Gandle spit out.

“Tragic.”

“What else do you know about it?” He pulled out a pad and pen.

“That Hannah Venable was killed and the entire building was destroyed,” said Suzanne.

Gandle tapped a pen against his spiral notepad. “Well, I already know that.”

“Gene, what do you want?” Suzanne was fast losing her good humor. Actually, she'd left it in the dirt two minutes ago.

“I understand that Sheriff Doogie was in here earlier.”

“Doogie is always in here,” said Suzanne. She pointed at their old-fashioned, '20s-era soda fountain counter, stools, and backdrop. “You see that stool at the end of the counter? I'm having a brass plate engraved. It's going to say Property of the Sheriff's Department.”

“I understand Doogie has already found himself a couple of suspects,” said Gandle.

“You'd have to ask him,” said Suzanne.

“I did ask him. Now I'm asking you.”

“I don't know why you think I know anything more.”

“Come on, Suzanne,” Gandle said in his trademark wheedle. “Don't tell me you're not getting involved in this arson case. I know you were there. I
saw
you there.”

“Me and half the town,” said Suzanne.

“What can you tell me about Marty Wolfson?”

“I really don't know the man,” said Suzanne. “Except that he came storming into the café a few hours ago and tried to give the sheriff what for.”

“I need more than just your folksy take on this, Suzanne, I need facts. I'm on deadline!” Gandle always acted like he was the third man on the Woodward and Bernstein team.

“It's Saturday, Gene. Relax. The
Bugle
doesn't come out until Thursday.”

“It's about getting a jump on the other media,” said Gandle.

“By ‘other media' you mean our local radio station? I understand they broadcast live from the scene of the fire.”

“But radio is so fleeting,” said Gandle, gesturing with his pen. “They do two minutes of news, five minutes of crappy commercials, then play a song. Nobody takes them seriously. Radio is so . . . disposable.”