Eggs Benedict Arnold (39 page)

“
Ayup, and I intend to get it,
”
said Doogie, though his
eyes suddenly seemed troubled.

“
You know Mayor Mobley will bad-mouth you like
crazy if you don
’
t solve these murders,
”
Suzanne told him.

“
The old fart already is. Plus he
’
s standing squarely behind Bob Senander. So much for loyalty.
”

“
Does Senander have any real experience?
”

“
He
’
s been highway patrol for eleven years.
”

“
So ... a serious contender,
”
said Suzanne.

“
Yup,
”
was Doogie
’
s tight reply.

A few minutes later, Doogie slid off his stool, hitched
at his belt, and said,
“
Gotta get back out to that farm. Walk
the scene again.
”

“
Sounds exciting,
”
said Suzanne.

“
It ain
’
t,
”
Doogie assured her.
“
Law enforcement ain
’
t
nearly as glamorous as they make it look on TV.
”

“
Nothing really is, is it?
”

“
To top things off,
”
said Doogie,
“
we found a darn mule
wandering around. Now we
’
re gonna have to find a home for
him.
”

“
I could take him,
”
offered Suzanne.

Doogie planted himself squarely and squinted at her.
“
What on earth for?
”

“
Keep my horse company. You know, like a stable
m
at
e.
”

“
Cost you fifty bucks. The Deer County Humane Soci
ety
’
s gonna have to trailer him over.
”

“
Bill me.
”

As Doogie slid out the door, Toni magically appeared
at Suzanne
’
s elbow, like some sort of friendly ghost.
“
You
think he suspects it was our tip?
”
she whispered.

Suzanne grimaced.
“
I sincerely hope not.
”

Chapter twenty two

Humming
Billy Joel
’
s
“
Uptown Girl,
”
Suzanne puttered
around in her kitchen. It was almost seven by the time she
got home, but since she
’
d snarfed a few tea sandwiches
earlier, she wasn
’
t all that hungry. So, after feeding Baxter,
praising him to high heaven for eating, and giving him a Milk-Bone for good measure, Suzanne bent down and searched her refrigerator.

Locating a thawed chicken breast, she decided on a quick version of chicken Normandy. Butter, little bit of flour, touch of brown sugar, then a dash of cream, a few
apple slices, and the chicken. She whipped it up fast in an
eight-inch
sauté
pan, dreaming about the restaurant she
’
d always wanted to open, planning the pluperfect menu in her head.

Locally produced trout, of course, from Asbury Trout Farm over by Jackson. The tender pink meat grilled over
apple wood and drizzled with a light sauce of white wine,
butter, lemon, and capers.

Got to have roast pork on the menu, too, she decided.
Accompanied by a squash puree, baked figs, and maybe a
medley of root vegetables.

And a nice duck breast. Maybe served with cranberry compote, potato gratin, and grilled chanterelle mushrooms.

Unless, of course, Carmen Copeland bought the Dries
den and Draper Funeral Home, converted it to a fine dining
establishment, and hired herself a big name chef. Pulled the rug right out from under her. And wouldn
’
t that be a dandy kettle of fish!

Or would it?

Would people choose to wine and dine in a former funeral home? Would Carmen convert the embalming room, with all its stainless-steel cabinets and sinks, into a kitchen?

That notion made Suzanne shudder. And if it affected her that way, then wouldn
’
t others be just as squeamish? Yeah, maybe. Hopefully.

Suzanne plated her chicken Normandy, poured a half glass of Chardonnay, placed everything onto a tray, and carried it into the living room. Settled onto the couch and snapped on the TV.

She nibbled a few bites, watching an action film about Vietnam. The soundtrack featuring songs by the Doors, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and the Rolling Stones.

‘
Nam, she thought. Love the music, hate the subject.
’

Grabbing the remote control, Suzanne spun through the cable channels. Found sports, a reality show where people were frantically stuffing raw squid into their mouths, some
kind of fake sports show with a big rubber obstacle course,
another reality show, reruns of an old sitcom about a girl
’
s
school where everybody was smart and rich, and news. She
watched a few minutes of CNN, decided her mutual funds
were
still
taking it in the shorts, then turned the TV off.
Suzanne wondered if this might be the evening she
’
d start
reading
People of the Book.
And let her gaze wander to her
bookshelf.

Actually, there were quite a few books stacked in her
to-be-read
pile. Three
mysteries, four cookbooks, and a tome on Napoleon that,
for some reason, had seemed ex
ceedingly appealing when she
’
d stumbled across it in the catalogs the publishing houses sent her.

Something else caught her eye, too. A kind of scrapbook
Walter had put together after he
’
d served as an army doctor
in Kuwait during the Gulf War. She smiled, thinking of the
stories he
’
d told her. And as those memories flooded back to
her, she wandered over to the bookshelf and picked it up.

Suzanne turned the stiff pages, gazing at the black and
white photos, her interest tempered by sadness. Walter had
been proud of his service in the Gulf War, and he
’
d toted
his little Nikon along to chronicle his experiences. Which,
all in all, had turned out to be pretty amazing.

There was the helicopter flight into Iraq to airlift out some severely wounded marines. In the process, they
’
d picked up a wounded Iraqi boy whose leg had been partially crushed. They weren
’
t supposed to fly the boy back
to Kuwait, of course; it was against regulations. But Walter
had done it anyway, saving lives and limbs in the process.

Turning another page, Suzanne smiled proudly. Here was
a grainy black-and-white photo of Walter and three other
doctors posing in front of a dusty Humvee. The desert docs
they
’
d called themselves. Proud, tough, compassionate.

She
’
d met Walter after his service, but had been fascinated by his stories. And his courage.

Suzanne continued to turn pages, wondering what these
people were doing today, some twenty years later? Sol
di
e
rs cast back as civilians. Had their memories long since
dimmed? What were their feelings about the more recent Iraq War?

She smiled as she scanned the rest of the photos.
“
All good men,
”
she murmured to herself.

The final photo showed Walter and another man stand
ing in front of a large tent.

Walter and another doc?

Suzanne stu
died
the picture. No, this fellow was a com
bat sol
di
e
r. Dressed in telltale desert camo gear, he had an
M16 slung carelessly across his body. The two were facing
each other, all sunburned faces and crinkled eyes.

Suzanne was about to close the album when she glanced
at the photo again. There was something about it. She
squinted carefully, studying the photo. And noticed that the
sol
di
e
r
’
s camo jacket carried the name tag Dillworth.

Her brain pinged with sudden recognition.

Good heavens! Could this be the same guy she
’
d seen
in the park last Sunday? The one Petra had given a handout to this morning? Whose jacket Petra thought bore the name
Dilley or Dillon?

Suzanne carried the book over to the leather sofa and sat down hard.

Could this be the same fellow who was also a suspect in two murders? Suzanne shifted uncomfortably and the cushions let loose a low whoosh.

The same guy Walter had reminisced about, had referred
to as Dil?

Oh jeez! It couldn
’
t be, could it?

She thought it could.

But what was this guy doing in Kindred? And how was
he involved?
Was
he involved?

Had he come here to find Walter? Or was something more sinister afoot?

Suzanne knew she had to find out. Had to get some an
swers. She tapped her foot against the glass table, setting
off a vibration that made the silverware on her tray jangle.

Could this homeless guy still be holed up in the caves,
like Doogie had thought?
And if she went looking for him,
to ask a few questions, would she be at risk?

Suzanne pondered that notion for a few moments.
Wondered about the wisdom of taking
things
into her own
hands.

Bad idea. Really bad idea.

She settled back on the sofa, glancing over at Baxter,
who was stretched out on the carpet, and said softly,
“
Hey
Bax.
”

His tail twitched once.

She hesitated, then said,
“
Want to go for a ride?
”

Driving
through the dark streets, Suzanne
’
s brain whirred
like a cyclotron.

Tuesday night, Sheriff Doogie had definitely been on the lookout for a homeless guy who
’
d been seen wander
ing through town. Doogie had postulated that the man was hunkered down in one of the caves that honeycombed the
hills and bluffs just outside Kindred.

And Petra
’
s homeless guy with the faded camo jacket...

Same guy? Could be. Had to be.

The rational part of Suzanne
’
s brain told her she shouldn
’
t go looking for this guy by her lonesome. She
should get on the horn to Doogie, tell him what she knew,
and hope that he
’
d round up a proper search team.

On the other hand, Doogie and his deputies might go cowboying in and launch a SWAT team-type assault. Scare the bejeebers out of the guy. Roust him, drag him down to the law enforcement center, shout questions all night.