Eggs Benedict Arnold (12 page)

Toni snorted, but continued,
”
... who
’
s low-key but fun-
loving and seeks a possible long-term relationship.
”

“
Low-key probably means he
’
s a slug,
”
pointed out Petra.

“
And fun-loving is code for likes to get drunk,
”
said Suzanne.

“
What about the part where he
’
s seeking a long-term relationship?
”
asked Toni.

“
Just means he wants somebody to cook for him, do laundry, and sandblast the scum off his bathroom walls,
”
laughed Suzanne.

“
You guys are so cynical,
”
said Toni.
“
I think he sounds
like a heck of a prospect.
”

“
You mean better than Junior,
”
said Petra.

“
Anybody
’
s better than Junior,
”
agreed Toni.

Suzanne wandered over to Petra
’
s newly done display of
knitting needles.
“
Tell me about these bamboo needles.
”

Petra
’
s face took on an almost beatific look.
“
Oh, they
’
re
simply
wonderful
”
she cooed.
“
Bamboo knitting needles
are exceedingly smooth and have a very soothing feel. The
amazing thing is, the yarn won
’
t slip off, but it will slide exactly the way you want it to. And the bamboo makes a soft, clicking sound. It
’
s almost spiritual. Zenlike,
”
she added.

“
We could all use a little Zen in our lives.
”
Suzanne sighed.

“
Thinking about Saturday,
”
said Toni,
“
I
’
m wishing I
knew a little bit about Zen. Or Yoga. To help me chill out.
”

“
Gonna be crazy,
”
agreed Suzanne.

Toni put her feet up on a leather footstool.
“
It
’
ll be a miracle if we get through it.
”

Petra glanced up from arranging her yarns and smiled serenely.
“
I don
’
t believe in miracles. These days I
rely
on them.
”

Chapter eight

The
sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when
Suzanne stepped outside the back door of the Cackleberry Club. Everything, as far as she could see
—fields, woods, faraway farmhouses—was
bathed
in a golden reddish light. It reminded her of a line from Shelley
’
s poem
“
To a Skylark.
”

In the golden light
’
ning of the sunken sun
O
’
er which clouds are bright
’
ning, though dost float and
run.

The broad, leafy field of soybeans rippled like waves as
the breeze washed across it. Across Suzanne
’
s field.

She and Walter had bought the land adjacent to the Cack
leberry Club some five years ago, as a kind of investment.
Now she leased the land and the farmhouse to a farmer named Ducovny.

Squinting across the field, Suzanne was just able to make
out a shimmer of buildings. Ducovny and his wife lived in
the farmhouse and took care of the horse she had bought
for herself a month or so ago. A nice reddish brown quarter
horse named Mocha Gent. Stocky and blocky, Mocha was just the kind of horse who could dodge and dance his way
around a barrel racing course, or chug along on long trail
rides.

Lots of evenings, Suzanne and Baxter would down a quick dinner, then drive back to the farmhouse where
Suzanne would throw an Indian blanket and worn leather saddle on Mocha
’
s broad back, then take a leisurely canter around the perimeter of the field. Sometimes Baxter lazed
in the barn on a bale of hay, sometimes he loped along beside them.

“
Hey, Bax,
”
Suzanne called to Baxter, whose tail gave a
welcoming thump, then revved into a fast drumming mo
tion.
“
Ready to pack it in for the day?
”

“
Roowr,
”
he growled. Ready to go.

“
Me, too,
”
Suzanne told him.
“
I
’
m beat.
”
She un
cli
pped Baxter from his long lead and opened the passenger door of her Ford Taurus. Baxter jumped in and settled down on the front seat.

Suzanne had intended to go right home. Fix a quick sup
per, slip into a warm bath, then maybe catch an old black-and-white movie on Turner Classic Movies. Maybe
Sunset Boulevard
or
The Maltese Falcon
was playing tonight. Or something light and frothy, with Fred Astaire.

Suzanne was bone tired and still reeling a bit from
Ozzie
’
s murder. But the notion of meth lab assholes break
ing into Driesden and Draper to steal drugs intrigued her.
Kept whirling in her brain like a big thumpin
’
load of tow
els tossed in her old Kenmore washer.

“
Change of plans,
”
she told Baxter as they zoomed
along.
“
Hope you can wait ten more minutes for din-din.
”
When Baxter gazed at her with limpid brown eyes, she added,
“
I
’
ll make it worth your while.
”

“
Grrrr?
”
he growled.

“
Yeah,
”
she said,
“
I could probably manage gravy.
”

Hanging a quick left, Suzanne cruised slowly through
Kindred
’
s downtown. It was both peaceful and pretty.

Lots
of vintage yellow and red brick buildings standing shoulder
to shoulder, like old World War I
solders
. Diagonal park
ing on the streets. Nice shops like Kuyper
’
s Drug Store,
the Kindred Bakery, the Ben Franklin, and Root 66, a hair
salon run by Gregg and Brett, two gay guys who did a mean
color and foil and whose styling techniques ran the gamut
from sleek and posh to Hindenburg-sized beehives.

The largest, really the prettiest, building downtown was
the Chandler Building, a three-story tower of red stone. This
was where Bobby Wake
’
s law offices had been located, and
this was the building that his widow, Carmen Copeland,
had recently purchased. Now
th
e first floor had been turned
into Alchemy Boutique. As Suzanne crept slowly toward it,
she could see large, well-lit windows swagged with elegant
mauve draperies. Quite a change from the garish video
store
th
at had inhabited the space earlier. And, as Suzanne
coasted past the front, she saw black lacquered mannequins
dressed in chic, red sheath dresses and short, thigh-skimming geometric shifts. Since all the lights blazed inside,
Suzanne imagined that Missy Langston was working away, artfully arranging bangles and bags, hanging jackets and T-
shirts, putting on the finishing touches for the big opening.

Then Suzanne swung out Valley View Road, past the OK Used Car Lot, the Lo Mein Palace, and Pizzaluna
’
s,
and pulled into the parking lot of Westvale Medical Clinic.
Turning the engine off, Suzanne listened to the tick-tick-tick of her engine cooling. She touched her palms to her cheeks,
blinked at herself in the rearview mirror, and thought about
the many times she
’
d breezed over here when Walter was on staff.

But that was then and this was now, she told herself. Grief was still a part of her life, but she
’
d tucked it deep
inside her heart where it would always remain a part of her,
but hopefully mellow.

Like a sand pebble in an oyster that,
over time, acquires a shimmering luster.

Suzanne grabbed her hobo bag and said,
“
Hang tight, Bax. I
’
ll only be a couple of minutes.
”
Then she climbed
out of her car and scurried through the front door.

A woman in blue scrubs glanced up from behind the front desk and exclaimed,
“
Suzanne! Is that really you?
”

“
Esther!
”
called Suzanne.
“
How are you? You look great!
”
Esther was the office manager at the clinic.

Like she
’
d been perched in an ejection seat, Esther
popped up and flew around the front desk to greet Suzanne and exchange hugs.
“
Hey, sweetie!
”
she exclaimed, clearly
delighted to see Suzanne.

“
I mean it,
”
said Suzanne.
“
You look terrific. What
’
s your
secret? Did you lose weight or something?
”
Esther was in
her early fifties, but had been blessed with a clear complexion, hazel eyes, rich brown hair, and very few wrinkles.

Esther giggled.
“
I
’
ve been on the seafood
th
a
t. I see food, I eat it.
”

“
Seriously,
”
said Suzanne, studying her.
“
There
’
s some
thing different.
”

“
Botox,
”
whispered Esther.
“
There
’
s a dermatologist over in Jessup who
’
s an artist with the syringe. He made two tiny injections right in the lines between my eyes . . .
you know, those nasty elevens ... and they were suddenly
gone. Vanished! I said, thank you kindly, Doctor, now please make short work of my crow
’
s feet, too.
”

“
Ah,
”
said Suzanne. Might that deft dermatologist also be the secret behind Carmen
’
s slightly plumped-up face? Could be.

Suzanne was about to pull out a pocket mirror and con
template her own elevens when Esther asked,
“
What brings
you in? We close in ten minutes, you know.
”

“
Right,
”
said Suzanne.
“
Sorry. I was wondering if Dr. Hazelet was still around. I have a quick question for him.
Nothing concerning health,
”
she added hastily.
“
Just
...
a
question.
”