Scorched Eggs (8 page)

The cries of outrage from the crowd seemed to drown out everything else.

But Suzanne had heard Doogie's words loud and clear. Arson. And
murder
. That couldn't be right, could it?
she thought to herself
. I mean . . . Ricky Wilcox?

Deputy Driscoll produced a set of gleaming silver handcuffs that clicked around Ricky's wrists as fast and neat as a snapping turtle's bite.

“But . . . but . . . we're not even married yet!” cried Kit. Her voice, the expression on her face, conveyed shock, outrage, numbing fear.

It didn't matter. Ricky was hauled away before anyone had a chance to say, “I do”! Or even . . .

“What on earth is going on?” Suzanne cried out. “What's Doogie saying?”

“Arrested?” said Sam.

“This is cuckoo!” said Junior. Even he was upset.

Toni was hopping mad. “Did you guys see that? Did you
see
that?” she sputtered, as if she were the only one who'd witnessed this outrage. “Doogie grabbed Ricky and . . .” She was tripping over her own words, fighting to catch her breath. “And . . . and he's been arrested and hauled away!”

Petra was the only one who wasn't completely unnerved. “I hate to say this,” she said, looking tight-lipped and solemn, “but maybe stopping this ceremony was a good thing.”

“No way,” cried Toni.

“Maybe it's a form of divine intervention,” Petra whispered.

“This is
Doogie's
intervention,” said Suzanne. Honestly, did he and his deputies really have to come galloping in like a pack of Nazi storm troopers and ruin Kit's wedding? It was completely unacceptable! In fact . . .

Suzanne was so enraged that she suddenly leapt from her seat and pushed her way to the center aisle.

“Where are you going?” Sam called after her.

“Suzanne, stop,” said Petra. “Don't interfere!”

But Suzanne had a mind of her own. She rushed down the aisle and elbowed her way through the confusion and chaos of upset guests.

“Doogie!” she yelled out. She was twenty feet behind him now and catching up as fast as her shiny black stilettos would allow. “What's going on? How could you
do
that?”

As Suzanne spun her way past a stand of aspens, she saw Deputy Driscoll's hand on top of Ricky's head as the hapless groom was pushed into the backseat of a maroon and tan cruiser.

“You just embarrassed Kit and Ricky in front of all their guests,” Suzanne cried, rushing up on Doogie's heels. “And ruined their wedding ceremony!”

Doogie turned a flat gaze on her and gave a warning motion with his hand for her to stay back. “Keep out of this, Suzanne.”

“No,” she cried, coming closer. “I'm
not
going to stay out of this. What possible reason could you have for arresting Ricky Wilcox? I mean . . . no way is he connected to yesterday's fire.”

“Do you know where Ricky Wilcox works?” Doogie asked, glaring at her. His face was as red as a Roma tomato. His Smokey Bear hat was on crooked, giving him a strange, lopsided look.

Suzanne frowned. What did that have to do with anything? She shrugged. “I don't know. The post office?”

Doogie shook his head vehemently. “Not since a couple of months ago. Now he works at Salazar Mining.”

“So what?” said Suzanne. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like a timpani drum run amok. Surely she could straighten this out. Surely she could help save the day. Kit's wedding day!

“Do you know what they
do
out there?” asked Doogie.

Why is Doogie peppering me with all these stupid questions?
she wondered.

“Um . . . it's some kind of silica sand mine, right?”

“Correct. And do you know
how
they get the silica sand out of the ground?” Doogie hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and advanced on her.

“Bulldozers,” said Suzanne. “Shovels.” She had no idea. Nor did she care at this point.

Doogie pushed his face closer to hers. “They
blast
it out of the ground. With nasty combustibles like dynamite and plastic explosives.”

That stopped Suzanne for all of five seconds. “Wait a minute, this is totally absurd. You don't really think that Ricky . . .”

“There were blasting caps missing from the mine,” said Doogie. “Do you know what blasting caps
do
?”

Suzanne shook her head. No. But she had a pretty good idea that Doogie was about to tell her.

“They're used as a primary explosive device to detonate a much larger explosive.”

Oh dear Lord
, Suzanne thought.
Doogie really is pointing a finger at Ricky for the fire. And for Hannah's death.

“Just because Ricky is an employee at that mine doesn't necessarily mean that he stole them,” said Suzanne. “It could have been anyone.”

“Oh yeah?” said Doogie. “Then how come we found blasting caps in the trunk of Ricky's car?”

“What?” Suzanne cried. She could hardly believe this.

“That's right,” said Doogie. “When Deputy Driscoll and I showed up looking for Ricky, just wanting to ask him a couple of routine questions, your buddy Junior happened to spring the trunk of Ricky's car open. And there they were. In plain sight.” He paused dramatically. “So tell me, please, just what am I supposed to surmise from that kind of hard evidence? Just why do you think Judge Carlson signed a warrant for Ricky's arrest?”

Suzanne opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it. She couldn't think of anything to say. In fact, she couldn't think of any reasonable explanation at all.

T
HEY
all trudged the couple of blocks over to Schmitt's Bar anyway. It was late Saturday afternoon, everybody was in need of a stiff drink, and, of course, there was cake.

But it was a sad, desultory party that seated themselves at one of the round tables in the Boom Boom Room.

“Drinks,” said Junior. He'd somehow taken it upon himself to play maître d'. “A show of hands for whoever wants a drink.”

“I suppose a watermelon daiquiri is out of the question?” said Petra.

“You'll have better luck with beer and a bump,” advised Junior.

“Junior,” said Suzanne, rapping her knuckles on the table to get his attention. “Why on earth did you open the trunk of Ricky's car for Sheriff Doogie? What was
that
all about?”

Junior blinked at her. “Why? Because the sheriff was interested.” He folded his arms across his chest, causing his too-large jacket to billow up around his scrawny neck. “Don't you get it, Suzanne? Men
like
cars, it's a male bonding thing. They like cylinder heads and differentials, and chrome wheels, and . . .”

“Car trunks,” said Suzanne. “Do you know that Doogie spotted some missing—or maybe even stolen—blasting caps in Ricky's trunk? That's why he came storming into the wedding and hauled him away!”

“
That's
why?” Junior gaped at her.

“You got it,” said Suzanne. She wasn't really mad at Junior, just upset with the situation, complicated as it might be.

“So it was all
your
fault,” said Toni, balling up a fist and giving Junior a sharp punch in the arm.

“Owww,” moaned Junior, cradling his arm and pretending to be seriously injured. “Why is it
my
fault?”

Petra held up a hand. “Wait a minute. So there really
were
blasting caps in the trunk of Ricky's car?”

“Apparently so,” said Suzanne.
Exhibit A: blasting caps. Situation not looking good for Ricky.

“And Sheriff Doogie thinks Ricky used them to set off that fire?” said Petra.

“That's his basic reasoning, yes,” said Suzanne.

“Case closed,” said Sam. He'd been quiet until now, listening to everyone argue back and forth, but now he said his piece. “Having possession of blasting caps, especially ones that were stolen, is awfully damning evidence.”

“Not so fast,” said Suzanne. “We don't
know
for sure that they were stolen. They could have been planted, and they could have come from anywhere. Think about it, what possible reason would Ricky Wilcox have for wanting to burn down the County Services Building?”

“What reason would anyone have?” asked Sam. “The whole thing is fluky and nonsensical. I mean, there's no clear
motive
.” His eyes fastened on Suzanne. “Aren't you always telling me that all crimes have to have a basic motive? And that, in order to solve a crime, you need to figure out the motive?”

Me and my big mouth
, Suzanne thought.

“Maybe Ricky had a grudge against Hannah?” said Petra. “Or against Bruce Winthrop?”

“The mild-mannered county agent and his capable assistant,” Suzanne said slowly. “They don't strike me as being
anyone's
adversary.”

“I do see your point,” said Petra.

Everyone was silent for a few moments and then Junior stood up and, once again, said, “Drinks?”

This time everyone put in an order.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
had barely taken a sip from her lemon drop when Kit came barreling in with her sister, Cara, in tow. She stopped suddenly at the entrance to the back room and gazed around at the white streamers, silver wedding bells, and bouquets of flowers on the tables. Then she looked pointedly at the wedding cake that occupied its own table, the cake Petra had so painstakingly baked and decorated. And her lower lip began to quiver.

“Honey . . . no,” said Suzanne. She jumped from her chair and swept Kit into her arms. “Please don't cry. This is all going to be sorted out, I promise you. I'm sure this is all a . . . a huge mistake.” At least she hoped it was.

But Kit did cry. Tears streamed down her face and great sobs tore from her. And Cara, feeling upset or maybe just left out of the action, began crying, too.

“Oh jeez,” said Junior. “Here come the waterworks.”

“You keep quiet,” warned Toni. “You've caused enough trouble for one day.”

“Sorry, turtledove,” he muttered. “I didn't mean to.”

“Kit,” said Cara, fighting to get her emotions under control and plucking at her sister's sleeve, “let's go back into the front room. We'll sit in a booth, order a nice stiff drink, and try to calm down. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Kit. She squeezed Suzanne's hand and murmured a strangled “Thank you.” Then she turned and headed into the front bar, as the train of her beautiful wedding dress dragged through the detritus of peanut shells and cigarette butts.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
managed to enjoy a couple more sips of her drink before Doogie showed up.

“Oh no,” said Toni, wrinkling her nose when she spotted him. “You. How can you even dare show your face here?”

“Because I'm upholding the law, that's why,” said Doogie. He wasn't about to take any crap from Toni or anyone else. “And I need to speak to Junior.”

“Me?” said Junior, jerking like he'd been touched with a hot poker and practically spilling his glass of beer. “What'd I do?”

“You're an accessory to the crime,” Toni told him.

“I don't want to be no accessory to the crime!” Junior whined.

“You're not an accessory,” said Doogie. “You're a witness.”

“There's a difference?” said Junior.

“I guess the poor boy never did finish law school,” Petra said in a droll voice.

“Take a chill pill, Junior,” said Doogie. “I just want to talk to you about Ricky's car.”

“Heh, heh,” Junior said, jittering in his chair. “About the tin cans and Silly String and stuff?”

“About the blasting caps,” said Doogie.

“I didn't put them there!” Junior cried. “No, sir, it wasn't me.”

“Can you stop by my office tomorrow afternoon around three?” Doogie asked.

“What for?” asked Junior, still on the defensive.

“Just to talk. To answer a few questions.”

“I won't be arrested?”

This time Doogie's mouth twitched and he couldn't help but smile. “No, Junior, you're not going to be arrested.”

Junior's hand did a mock swipe across his brow. “Whew. You had me scared there.”

Doogie hitched up his utility belt and turned to leave. But two seconds later, he found himself facing a very angry Kit Kaslik.

“What are
you
doing here?” Kit demanded. She was so angry she was practically spitting at him.

“Funny,” said Doogie. “People keep asking me that.” He ran the back of his hand down the side of his cheek. “I'm trying to solve a case of arson and what looks like murder, and folks keep asking me what I'm doing.” He took a step closer to Kit and his voice dropped a few chilly degrees. “I'm doing my job, that's what I'm doing. And anybody who doesn't like it can get the heck out of my way!”

Doogie lumbered off, leaving Kit looking astonished.

“You can't talk to me like that!” Kit hurled after him. She turned and threw a pleading look at Suzanne. “He can't talk to me like that, can he?”

“Clearly he just did,” said Sam.

Suzanne pushed her drink away and stood up. She went over to Kit, hooked an arm around her, and hauled her down a narrow corridor toward the ladies' room. “We need to talk,” she told her.

They stood in the hallway under a tin sign that read, Beer—It's Not Just for Breakfast Anymore. Kit dropped her head and sobbed quietly and defeatedly for a few minutes. Suzanne let her. She figured it was good for Kit to get it all out.

Finally, Kit pulled a hankie from her purse, blew her nose, and focused red-rimmed eyes upon Suzanne. “Can you help me?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Honey, I can try,” said Suzanne. “But you're going to have to hold it together.” She placed her hands on Kit's shoulders and squeezed. “Do you think you can do that?”

Kit nodded. “I'll try.”

“Good,” said Suzanne. “First things first. Ricky's going to need a lawyer.”

“Okay.”

“Can you handle that or do you want me to make some calls?”

“I can do that,” said Kit. “I want to do that.” She hesitated and gave a loud sniffle. “But I really do need
your
help, too.”

“With . . . ?” said Suzanne. She was pretty sure she knew what was coming.

“You're close to Doogie,” said Kit. “And you're good at figuring things out.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, you are!” said Kit. “You're clever and you've got good instincts and a real knack for unraveling tough cases.” Her words tumbled out fast.

“Don't let Doogie hear you say that,” said Suzanne.

“I don't care if he
does
hear me,” said Kit.

“What's going on?” said a voice at their elbows. It was Toni. She'd crept quietly down the hallway to see what kind of confab they were having.

“I'm asking Suzanne for help,” said Kit.

“Good,” said Toni.

“Not good,” said Suzanne.

“C'mon, girlfriend,” said Toni. “You're a first-class amateur sleuth. A regular Nancy Drew.”

“I wish you wouldn't say that,” said Suzanne.

Toni snapped her fingers. “Okay, how about that lady in
Murder, She Wrote
?
You're kind of a younger version of her.”

“I'm not sure what I can do,” Suzanne hedged. She wanted to help, she really did. As much as she tried to resist it, Suzanne was a champion of underdogs, a fighter for lost causes. No wonder she could never say no when dog rescue groups, women's shelters, and veterans' groups called on her to volunteer her time or services. But this . . . this was a thousand times trickier. And dangerous, too.

Now Toni and Kit were both looking at Suzanne with hopeful, pleading expressions on their faces.

Oh man. How can I say no to this poor girl?
Suzanne thought.
The fact is, I can't. I just can't. Not on what was supposed to be her wedding day. Not with her being three months pregnant.

“Okay,” said Suzanne. She held up an index finger. “I'm not promising anything here, but I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” said Kit.

“Atta girl,” said Toni.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
and Toni drifted back to their table, where Petra seemed to be caught up in a serious discussion with Sam. Junior watched from the sidelines, one eye on Petra and Sam, one eye on the cake.

“The thing is,” said Petra. Her brow was furrowed and she'd developed a deep set of 11's between her eyes. “What if Ricky
did
set that fire? I mean, what do we really know about him?”

“Wait a minute,” said Suzanne, sitting down next to Sam and gazing at Petra. “Not so long ago you had us practically convinced that Jack Venable was the arsonist and killer. Now you've gone all Chutes and Ladders with a
different
theory, thinking that Ricky might be the guilty one. Which is it, Petra? Because you can't have it both ways.”

“I don't
know
,” said Petra, getting red in the face. “None of us do. It's a mystery.”

“A murder mystery,” said Junior. He looked across the table at Suzanne and winked.

Suzanne tried her best to ignore him.

“We have to try to figure out motive,” said Sam. Now he was gazing at Suzanne.

Motive
, thought Suzanne. She had to start somewhere and maybe the best place was to try to figure out who Jack Venable was having an affair with. That might lead somewhere . . .

“Did Kit just ask you for help?” Petra asked.

“She sure did,” said Toni.

“And you said yes?” Petra asked. Now
she
was gazing at Suzanne, too.

Suzanne tried to avoid everyone's eyes. “I said I'd try,” she mumbled. “I said I'd try.”

“Jeez,” said Junior, “are we ever gonna cut that cake?”

*   *   *

T
HEIR
little party broke up some ten minutes later. Except that Sam wanted to stay at Schmitt's Bar and have something to eat. And Toni and Junior wanted to sit at the bar and enjoy two-for-one Happy Hour drinks. Double Bubble, they called it here.

“Are you sure you want to stay?” Suzanne asked as they slid into one of the battered wooden booths in the front section of the bar. “Because I can fix us something at home.”

“Nah,” said Sam. “This is fine. Why not make it easy on ourselves?”

“Probably because nothing is easy,” Suzanne said under her breath.

Freddy, the aging hippie bartender/owner, was at their booth in a heartbeat. “Here are your menus, folks,” he said, handing them grease-stained, floppy menus that everyone pretty much knew by heart. Freddy's goatee was braided and fastened with a tiny gold ring and he wore blue jeans, red suspenders, and a T-shirt that said You Had Me at Bacon
.

“Burger basket,” said Sam. He generally stuck to a heart-healthy diet of chicken, fish, veggies, and fruit, but when it came to Freddy's grilled hamburgers all bets were off. Sizzled on an old-fashioned, grease-encrusted grill that looked like it had been dug from the embers of Hell, the burgers came out pink and juicy on the inside, nicely charred on the outside.

“Cheese?” said Freddy. “I got some special Maytag blue in the cooler.”

“Sold,” said Sam.