Scorched Eggs (9 page)

Freddy smiled at Suzanne. “How about you, ma'am?”

Suzanne felt like an arrow had pierced her heart. She'd been ma'amed. No woman, even if she was just a hair over forty, wanted to be ma'amed.

“I'll have the same thing,” Suzanne told him.

“How about a tasty basket of onion strings to accompany those burgers?” Freddy asked. He was always skillful at pimping the extras.

“Sure,” said Sam.

Freddy wrote down their orders in his crooked, back-slanted handwriting, then looked up at Suzanne and said, “I'm really sorry about the wedding reception. I heard what happened over at the park.” He shook his head gravely. “It wasn't right, the sheriff charging in like that. He should have at least waited for that young couple to say their I do's.”

“I hear you,” said Suzanne.

“I ain't going to charge them for use of the back room, neither,” said Freddy. “It wouldn't be right.”

“That's very sweet of you,” said Suzanne. For some reason, Freddy's small kindness made her feel like crying. Up to this point she'd been shocked, angry, amazed, and befuddled, but certainly not tearful. Now, everything seemed to boil up inside of her, and her emotions felt like they were ready to pour out.

Sensing Suzanne's inner turmoil, Sam stretched an arm across the table and gently touched her hand.
Take it easy
, he seemed to be saying. Then he very carefully and deliberately mouthed the words
I love you.

*   *   *

O
NE
hamburger, two handfuls of onion strings, and a glass of white wine later, Suzanne was feeling a whole lot better. Someone had cranked up the jukebox and now it was pumping out Little Richard's “Good Golly Miss Molly.”

The Saturday night crowd had arrived in full force and the proverbial joint was jumping. The decibel level rivaled that of a jet engine, harried waitresses delivered foaming mugs of beer, the grill sizzled and popped nonstop, and there was the faint sound of pool balls being racked in the far corner.

“Hey, you guys are still here,” said Toni.

She and Junior had relinquished their stools at the bar and eased over to Suzanne and Sam's booth, looking relaxed after more than a couple of $2 beers. Sam was studying the check and peeling off bills to pay for supper.

“Not for long,” said Suzanne. “We were just leaving.”

“You oughta stick around,” said Junior. “There's gonna be a meat raffle later on. To benefit the Jaycees.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Sam. He glanced sideways at Suzanne and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“It's a fifteen-pound chuck roast from Pekarna's Meats,” said Toni.

“Put that baby in your freezer and you can eat for a month!” exclaimed Junior.

“Only if you defrost it first,” said Suzanne. She gathered up her purse, glanced over at the bar, and registered that a slight commotion was going on. And there, right in the center of things, wearing a red plaid shirt and faded denim jeans, and looking as if he'd been dropped there by the hand of God, was Darrel Fuhrman. He was leaning forward, elbows on the bar, looking belligerent and shaking his finger at someone, obviously trying to drive home a point.

Suzanne nudged Toni. “Isn't that Darrel Fuhrman at the bar?”

Toni twisted her head and looked around. “Oh yeah,” she said. “I guess it is.”

“Who's Darrel Fuhrman?” asked Sam.

“Believe it or not,” said Suzanne, keeping her voice low, “he's one of Doogie's suspects.”

“What?” Sam and Junior said together in a rush.

“Well, maybe he's not one of Doogie's suspects anymore,” Suzanne amended. “Now that the situation has changed somewhat.”

“Hold everything,” said Sam. “Where did you get this information?”

“From Doogie,” said Suzanne. “He told me this morning that they were taking a hard look at Fuhrman.”

“And why would they do that?” said Sam.

“Because he was let go from the fire department by Chief Finley,” said Suzanne.

“Why was he let go?” asked Junior.

Suzanne shrugged. “I don't know, I guess you'd have to ask Chief Finley.”

“Maybe I'll do that,” said Junior.

“Don't get involved,” Toni warned.

“Seriously, Suzanne,” said Sam. “Why on earth would Doogie suspect this guy Fuhrman?”

“I'm not sure exactly,” said Suzanne. “He just kind of mentioned it in passing.”

“I've heard stories,” said Junior, “about firemen who really enjoy the excitement of a fire. The flames, the heat, the destruction. In fact, they get to liking it so much that they sometimes go out and set fires themselves.” Junior's eyes practically bulged during the telling.

“That's very creepy,” said Toni. “But is it true?”

“I've read a few case studies that confirmed that,” said Sam.

They all looked over at Fuhrman, who seemed to be holding court now at the bar. He was listing on his barstool, obviously drunk, and still talking way too loud.

Then, as if their collective gaze had alerted him, Fuhrman looked over at the group and said, “You people lookin' at something?”

“Uh-oh,” said Sam. They all turned their eyes back on one another.

“You hear me talkin' over here?” Fuhrman demanded. He sounded cocky and confrontational. Like he might be itching for a fight.

Again, nobody breathed or moved a muscle.

“I guess you heard the rumor, too, huh?” Fuhrman said loudly. “That it was me who set that fire?” He giggled drunkenly as he swayed on his barstool. “Now you all know that I'm innocent because Sheriff Doogie just
arrested
some other poor sap!”

“Come on,” said Sam. “Let's get out of here.”

Toni made the mistake of glancing over at Fuhrman as they passed by him.

Fuhrman cocked a murderous eye at her and bellowed, “Or maybe a
woman
set that fire. These days you never know.” Then he turned back to the bar and cackled like a hyena.

S
UZANNE
creaked a single eye open and looked around her bedroom. The light was dim and the clock on her nightstand said six-fifteen. Ooh . . . still early. Way too early to make any pretense of the old rise and shine. Yet, the space next to her was unoccupied. Not only that, but the pillow had been punched up and smoothed, and the patchwork quilt had been pulled up so everything was all neat and tidy.

Dr. Hazelet, where did you slip off to?

Suzanne rolled back over and thought for a few moments. She'd been vaguely aware of Sam's cell phone going off around five o'clock this morning, and him mumbling something about a possible emergency appendectomy. Or maybe it had been a tracheotomy?

Whatever. She was feeling woozy and confused and suddenly worried that she might have overcommitted herself to Kit last night. Could she really talk to Doogie and get things straightened out? After all, Ricky couldn't be guilty, could he?

Taking a deep breath, Suzanne sat up in bed and tried to focus. She swung her legs around and scuffed her bare toes against the furry flokati rug on the floor.

There . . . better. Her head was starting to clear.

After a minute or two of wake-up time, a few more cogent thoughts rumbled through Suzanne's brain. She thought about how Kit had begged for her help. And Bruce Winthrop, too. Winthrop was crazed with grief over Hannah, and Kit was terrified that Ricky was going to be tried for murder.

What a nasty situation. For everyone involved.

And Doogie . . . how many suspects did he have now? Suzanne tallied them up on her fingers. There was Hannah's husband, Jack Venable. Ricky Wilcox. Darrel Fuhrman, the ex-fireman. And Marty Wolfson, the estranged husband of the rescued woman. He was still in the picture, right? Sure he was, he had to be.

If Doogie was on the right track, and he'd certainly proved to be a smart, tenacious investigator, one of those men must have committed arson. The problem was, which one?

Suzanne dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her eyes. Then she let her hands wander to the back of her neck, where a couple of overnight kinks seemed to have lodged. She massaged her neck gently and, when she looked up, two pairs of limpid brown eyes were staring at her. Baxter and Scruff.

“What?” she said. Then, “Yeah, I know you're hungry. Give me ten minutes to brush my teeth, comb my hair, and jump into my T-shirt and a pair of leggings. Then I'll feed you guys a nice bowl of kibbles and we'll all go for a lovely walk. Okay? Everybody like that idea?”

By the wide doggy grins and thumping of tails, she could tell they liked it just fine.

*   *   *

A
bright red cardinal, with a sunflower seed clutched in its beak, flitted from one cedar tree to another as Suzanne headed out the back door. Baxter watched the bird with little interest; Scruff wagged his tail. They walked across the backyard and, once again, Suzanne wondered how she was ever going to get her lawn back in shape. Not only was it a crossword puzzle of brown and yellow patches, but several large holes had been recently excavated. She didn't know if the dogs dug holes for recreational purposes or if they had found inspiration in watching
The Great
Escape.
Thank goodness they'd stayed well away from her herb garden, where her chives, rosemary, basil, and parsley were growing.

The herb garden had been a struggle. First it had been unseasonably cold and rainy. Then, once the plants had poked their tender heads up, the rabbits had invaded. A couple of rolls of chicken wire had settled that score. Then the bugs had taken more than a casual interest. Little crawly green caterpillars that chewed holes in the leaves and deposited tiny white dots that she assumed were larvae. It had been an ongoing conflict between her respect for nature, and her God-given right to grow a meager crop of herbs. Pesticides were out, of course. And though the dogs now kept the rabbits at bay, they'd never quite got the hang of chasing caterpillars. Maybe she should have chanted and burned sage?

Out the gate and down the back alley the three of them charged. The dogs strutting their stuff out in front of Suzanne while she clung to their leashes like a Roman chariot driver. It was still early morning and it looked as if nobody in the neighborhood was even awake yet. So a good time to sniff along the boulevards, stray into a yard or two, and maybe even discreetly lift a leg.

Even though it was the tail end of August, warm weather had been holding on during the daylight hours. A few flowers were still in bloom, but the bumblebees were starting to get logy and the deciduous trees looked as if they'd already peaked and wanted to start shedding their leaves any day now. And mornings, especially this particular morning, had a crispness in the air that was a distinct harbinger of autumn.

As Suzanne cruised along with the dogs, she felt her muscles warming and fell into a nice rhythm. Because it felt so good to get out and move, she continued walking, block after block, past the little Cape Cods and modified Queen Anne homes in her neighborhood, past homes with porch swings and window boxes, and one enormous American Gothic home with a tabby cat sneaking around the front yard.

Until, suddenly, with more than a dozen blocks behind her, Suzanne found herself a short distance from the park, gazing at its expanse of trees and green grass.

The park. Oh no. I wonder if the decorated gazebo and garlands are still in place?

Curiosity pulled Suzanne across the street and down the same lane of trees she'd strolled just yesterday afternoon with Sam.

Had it only been yesterday? Really, just sixteen hours ago? It feels like a month has transpired.

With a tinge of sadness and a little trepidation, Suzanne stopped and gazed at the little glen where the wedding was supposed to have taken place. The chairs were gone, but the garlands and vines were still hanging there. Up in the tree, she saw it wasn't just little bows that had been tied in the branches as she'd first thought. There were little pieces of paper attached.

Wedding wishes.

Suzanne reached up and pulled one down. Written in gold ink on a small circle of parchment were the words
Forever
Happy.
She folded the paper carefully and tucked it in the pocket of her hoodie.

Would Kit and Ricky ever find themselves forever happy, she wondered? Or would circumstances take them down a different path, a darker path?

Tugging at the dogs' leashes, Suzanne wheeled around and retraced her footsteps. She cut across the playground, where teeter-totters sat expectantly and swings dangled in the breeze. Passing Kuyper's Hardware Store now, she turned at the corner and, on impulse, hung a quick left. And found herself strolling slowly down the alley behind the burned-out building.

It still reeked of smoke back here and yellow crime scene tape fluttered from where it was still attached to the adjacent buildings. But the tape had been broken in several places, so she assumed any number of curious folks had driven or walked down this same alley and poked around.

To find what? Probably nothing. Probably the arson investigator had cowboyed in and found whatever there was to be found. He'd taken his little samples, sent them back to the lab for analysis, and then . . . Then, she didn't know what might happen.

The dogs stayed in the middle of the alley, acting bored, but Suzanne was walking as close as she dared to piles of ashes and timbers and rubble. In one spot, where the ash was light gray, she could see large footprints that looked like they'd been made by a Vibram-soled hunting boot. Someone had walked in there, dodging fallen timbers and leaning columns of scorched bricks, to take a serious look around.

Not me, though. This whole scene looks way too dangerous.

In fact, Suzanne wondered why Doogie or Chief Finley hadn't stretched some plastic fencing around the entire area just to keep things safe. To keep the kids out.

Pausing now, Suzanne studied the scene. She wondered what the fire's point of origin had been, what torturous thoughts had gone through poor Hannah's mind in the last few moments of her life. A soft scratching sound behind her suddenly made Suzanne stiffen. She whirled around. Was someone there, watching her? Or had Baxter been taking care of an itch?

But, no, he was standing there practically motionless, watching her. Wary now, Suzanne glanced up and down the alley. But all she saw were debris, trash cans, and a random pile of fallen, scorched bricks.

Nothing
, she told herself.
Nothing there.

She let loose a sigh and was about to move on, when something caught her eye.

Hmm?

She squinted at the ground and saw, under a pile of half-burned paper or shingles or whatever, a tiny hint of red. What could it be?

Suzanne glanced around, grabbed a stick, and stirred the pile of ashes, unearthing the little bit of red.

Then she bent down and picked it up.

It was some type of token. Like a game token or an old-fashioned streetcar token. She wasn't exactly sure what it was, but it was interesting. A little bit of something salvaged from all that damage.

Not thinking twice about it, Suzanne dropped it in her pocket.

*   *   *

A
T
eleven o'clock, Suzanne was in her kitchen, rattling pots and pans, trying to decide whether to make herself a cheese omelet or whip up a batch of pancake batter. She pulled open her refrigerator, grabbed a carton of cream and a few other choice ingredients. Just as she lifted a knee and pushed the refrigerator door shut, she heard a soft knock at her front door. Then a distinct click of the latch.

“Hello?” It was Sam's voice calling to her. He'd come back from the hospital.

“In here,” she called back. “Kitchen.”

He padded in, looking tired, slightly bedraggled, and totally adorable in a faded red Henley shirt and blue jeans.

“You're back,” Suzanne said.

“I told you that I would be.”

“You did, really?” She gave a distracted smile. “Because I don't remember you saying that.”

“I didn't think you were quite awake.”

“Well, I am now,” said Suzanne. “In fact, I've been up for a while. I even considered jumping on the old Learjet and heading off to Maui for a day at the beach, but then I thought,
What if Sam drops by? What if the poor guy's hungry?
”

“I am hungry,” Sam said. He eased himself onto a stool at the counter and gave her a hopeful look. “Starved, in fact.”

“Don't like the Jell-O they serve at the hospital commissary?”

“Nope.”

“How about their powdered eggs?”

“Pass.”

She smiled. “Then I'm happy to inform you that my kitchen is open for business.”

Sam looked suddenly relieved. “I was hoping . . .”

“You realize, however, that on Sunday mornings I function as more of a short-order cook than a full-service chef. So what might your little heart desire? Eggs? Pancakes?”

“Pancakes would be wonderful,” said Sam.

“How about a short stack of my trademark blue velvet pancakes?” Suzanne said.

Sam's eyes lit up with anticipation. “I don't know what they are, but I'm pretty sure I want them.”

*   *   *

A
S
they were enjoying brunch in the dining room—Suzanne had fixed a couple slices of Canadian bacon to go with her blueberry pancakes—Sam said, “What are you going to do today?”

Suzanne was about to reply,
Investigate a murder
. Instead, she caught herself and said, “I thought I'd take Mocha Gent over to the field by the City Works Garage and work him for a little while.” Her quarter horse was a barrel racer. He'd been schooled as one when she bought him, and, over the past couple of years, she'd tried to maintain his barrel racing skills. Which basically meant riding hell-bent for leather around a cloverleaf of metal barrels, hanging on tight, and hoping Mocha didn't rip her leg off when they spun too hard and fast around a barrel.

Though Suzanne knew she was kapow crazy for even considering it, she was thinking about entering the barrel racing contest at the Logan County Fair this coming week.

“When does the county fair start?” Sam asked. He knew about her secret hankering for a barrel racing win, even if she had to settle for fifth or sixth place.

“Ah . . . I think this Thursday. Yes, Thursday night. That's when the parade is scheduled to go through downtown.”

“And when is your barrel racing event?”

“Friday afternoon. But I still haven't decided if I'm even going to enter.”

“Sure you are, you've been practicing like crazy.”

“I don't know,” said Suzanne. “The thing is . . . I've got a lot of other fish to fry, too.”

Sam glanced sideways at her. “You mean like shadowing Sheriff Doogie? Trying to figure out who set that fire?”

“Noooo. I was thinking about the tea group that's coming in on Tuesday, attending Hannah's funeral on Wednesday, and getting the Cackleberry Club spruced up and ready for the dinner theater we're hosting on Friday night.”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “So no more chasing crooks and solving crimes?”

“I'm really more concerned about what's happening at work this week,” Suzanne said, trying to ease her way out of his line of questioning. “In fact, I'm wondering if you've even memorized your lines for the play.” Sam had recently been recruited by the Kindred Community Players and given a role in this Friday night's production.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Did you not realize I have Shakespearean training?”

Suzanne gazed at him. “I suppose you're referring to the summer stock you did at the Globe Theatre, in between your medical internship and residency?”

“That's it,” said Sam. He reached out and took her hand. “‘Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York.'”