Eggs Benedict Arnold (5 page)

George Draper rushed to greet her.
“
Mrs. Carr, we
weren
’
t expecting you today.
”
Suzanne suddenly realized
that Nadine Carr was the wife of the corpse in the next
room.

Nadine Carr stared at Draper, then shifted her inquisi
tive glance to Suzanne and Petra, who had a nodding ac
quaintance with Nadine. She
’
d eaten at the Cackleberry
Club a couple of times. Maybe purchased some skeins of
yarn there, too.

“
Hello,
”
said Nadine. She hesitated, taking in every
one
’
s stricken face.
“
Is
...
is something wrong? I saw a
sheriff
’
s car parked outside.
”

“
Right this way, Mrs. Carr.
”
George Draper took Na
dine by the arm and gently guided her away. She walked,
somewhat unsteadily on two-inch squash heels, toward the
parlor where her wizened little husband, in his one good suit, was laid out in a bronze Eternalux casket.

“
This place is suddenly Grand Central Station,
”
re
marked Suzanne.

“
Poor Nadine,
”
said Petra, staring at the not-quite-closed
door.
“
What do you suppose he
’
s going to tell her?
”

“
Whatever it is,
”
said Suzanne,
“
it
’
s going to come as a
bombshell.
”

Suzanne and Petra fell silent and focused their attention on the mumbled conversation that was taking place
in that little parlor. Most of the mumbling was being done
by Draper and they caught a few words such as
“
frightful
”
and
“
shocking.
”

There were a few moments of silence, then a hoarse out
burst of,
“
Oh no!
”
as Nadine
’
s sad words floated back to them.
“
Dead? Ozzie? I can hardly believe it!
”

“
Believe it,
”
muttered Suzanne, as she
breathed
a prayer
of thanks to the Almighty that she
’
d been fortunate enough not to be summoned along with poor Ozzie.

Chapter four

“
Were
drugs stolen, too?
”
asked Toni. Reddish blond hair piled atop her head like a show pony, wearing tight 501 jeans and an equally tight Aerosmith T-shirt, Toni was juggling a Scramble Deluxe and a plate of Jumpin
’
Jack Spuds. She teetered on red high-heeled sandals that
matched her enameled red toenails. Toni was a true believer
in the concept of an endless summer and wore cork wedge
sandals from March until the first snowfall. Except,
of course, when she wore cowboy boots.

It was Monday morning at the Cackleberry Club and the
breakfast rush was in full force. Eight hungry male
bodies
were perched on stools and hunched over breakfast plates that sat atop a vintage marble counter appropriated from a now-defunct pharmacy in neighboring Cornucopia. These men, mostly truckers and neighboring farmers, ate silently
but with great gusto.

The rest of the tables, covered in blue-and-white oil
cloth, were also filled with customers. Happy, hungry customers who were chowing down on stacks of buttermilk
pancakes dripping with maple syrup, blueberry muffins,
eggs mornay, Eggs on a Cloud, and Slumbering Volcanoes,
this last being a tasty concoction that featured an egg baked
inside a scooped-out tomato with artichoke hearts, parme
san cheese, and loads of garlic.

Hunkered in the steamy kitchen, Petra sizzling thick-cut strips of bacon and links of sweet Italian sausage on a blackened expanse of grill, the three women were still puzzling over Ozzie
’
s murder, like a well-oiled team of detectives.

“
What do you think?
”
Petra asked Suzanne.
“
Was this about drugs?
”
Petra talked as she moved about efficiently in her white chef
’
s jacket, comfy crop pants, and modified chef
’
s hat that looked like an imploded mushroom.

“
We don
’
t really know about the drug aspect yet,
”
Suzanne told Toni.
“
In fact, we
’
re not sure if the pharmaceuticals were spilled during the struggle or if Ozzie stumbled
in and caught drug thieves in the act. I
’
ll have to check with
Doogie about that.
”

“
But would drug thieves go so far as to
kill
Ozzie?
”
mused Toni.

“
Of course they would,
”
said Petra, expertly flipping
two sausages onto a waiting plate and sounding a little out
raged.
“
Druggies hold up Seven-Elevens, break into clinics, and even mug old
ladies
for chump change.
”

“
It
’
s the duct-tape part that weirds me out,
”
continued Toni.

‘
Taping Ozzie
’
s mouth, hands, and feet is totally grisly,
”
agreed Suzanne.
“
It
’
s like something from one of those horror flicks, like
Saw
or
Hostel.
Like ... torture.
”

“
And that
machine
”
said Toni.
“
You think Ozzie realized what was happening? That his blood was ... ?
”

Suzanne could only shake her head.
“
If Ozzie had been fully conscious, it must have been a nightmare for him.
”

“
And nobody
’
s spoken to Missy yet?
”
asked Petra. She spun around like a ballet dancer, dipped her ladle into a bowl of pancake mix, then dropped three little
puddles of batter on the grill where they made a satisfying sizzle.

“
It
’
s not that I haven
’
t tried,
”
Suzanne told her.

“
Call her again,
”
urged Toni.
“
We
’
ve got to make sure she
’
s okay. Do it now while I cover the cafe out front.
”
Grabbing a large silver tray, Toni artfully arranged five
plated breakfasts onto it, as though she were fitting together
pieces of a Chinese puzzle.

Suzanne snatched the phone off the wall and punched in Missy
’
s number. Because she
’
d tried calling so many times,
she had it memorized. And since Missy was a good friend
and constant customer at the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne was growing more and more concerned that she couldn
’
t get ahold of her.

Missy had experienced her own share of bad luck over the past few months. She
’
d been the office manager for Bobby Waite, Suzanne
’
s former lawyer, who
’
d suffered a very untimely death. Bobby
’
s passing had pretty much rocked everyone
’
s world. When the law office closed, Missy had accepted a job as general manager of Alchemy,
a new fashion boutique that was slated to open this Friday
in Kindred
’
s picturesque downtown.

“
Doggone,
”
exclaimed Suzanne, frowning.
“
Number
’
s
still busy. And when I called last night, there was no answer
at all.
”

“
She
’
s probably just too upset to talk to anyone,
”
said Petra.
“
Just letting her phone ring into oblivion.
”

“
I suppose,
”
said Suzanne. She glanced out the back window and saw her dog, Baxter, lying in the sun. Most
days, she brought Baxter to work with her and he enjoyed
his day, alternately snoozing and terrorizing gophers that
popped their ratty little heads up from the neighboring soy
bean field.

He was getting older, his muzzle going white, but he hadn
’
t lost his spunk for shagging rodents.

“
Cheddar cheese strata
’
s up,
”
said Petra, quickly plating
two more breakfasts. She blew a wisp of hair from her face,
then muttered,
“
Now I gotta get my cookies in the oven.
”

“
Chocolate chip?
”
asked Suzanne. Petra was renowned for her chocolate chip cookies. Suzanne was renowned for taking a half dozen home with her and polishing them off while watching
Sex and the City
reruns.

“
Chocolate chunk walnut cookies,
”
said Petra, giving a slow wink.

Suzanne
delivered more breakfasts, poured refills of coffee, joked with a few customers, delivered checks, and cleared tables. Toni was behind the counter, slicing a loaf of freshly baked wheat bread and making a ham, Gruyere cheese, and tomato sandwich for an early take-out lunch.

Suzanne smiled to herself, feeling content. This was the time of day she enjoyed most. When things were humming
but not too crazy yet. When the aroma of cinnamon muf
fins, spicy kielbasa sausage, and fresh-brewed Kona coffee hung redolent in the air. And when she could stand behind
the old brass cash register and accept both money and com
pliments from their customers.

The Cackleberry Club, in all its cozy, homespun glory, was a bit of a throwback. No frozen, prepackaged foods were heated in microwaves like chain restaurants were wont to do. In fact, the Cackleberry Club prided itself on serving made-from-scratch baked goods, using only cage-free eggs, and sourcing the freshest, local
ingredients
. Which, interestingly enough, was one of the hottest trends going in the fine dining industry today, whether it was
Jean-Georges in New York, Chez Panisse in Berkeley, or
the French Laundry in Napa Valley.

Of course, none of those restaurants boasted a Book
Nook and Knitting Nest. Or a fine collection of salt and pepper shakers, battered tin signs, and ceramic chickens
crowded into a colorful flock on the cafe
’
s high shelves.
And Suzanne was pretty sure that none of those fancy res
taurants had antique egg crates piled outside their front
door or a tangle of wild roses crawling up a white trellis.

Ten
minutes later, when Sheriff Roy Doogie swaggered
into the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne really wasn
’
t sur
prised. She figured he
’
d show up sooner or later. Doogie
had a nose for questions and a craving for caramel rolls.

“
Sheriff,
”
said Suzanne, as Doogie slid onto the red
vinyl stool at the far end of the counter.
“
How did it go
with
th
e crime scene boys?
”

Doogie tilted his head back and peered down his nose at
her.
“
They did their thing and I did mine.
”

“
And your thing is ... ?
”
asked Suzanne.

“
Interviewing suspects.
”

Toni eased her way down the counter to join them.
“
You have suspects?
”
she asked.
“
So soon?
”
She sounded
impressed.

Petra stuck her face through the pass-through and asked,
“
You want somethin
’
to eat, Sheriff? I got hot Italian sausage and a couple of cakes with your name on them. Oh,
and a caramel roll, too.
”

“
I ain
’
t gonna say no,
”
responded Doogie, as Suzanne
laid out flatware and a white paper napkin and Toni poured
coffee into an oversized ceramic mug with a chicken on
the front.

“
So,
”
said Toni, sliding the coffee across the counter to
Doogie,
“
who exactly are these suspects of yours?
”

Doogie took a long slurp of coffee, set his cup down,
and smiled a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary smile.
“
Some
times they
’
re right under your nose.
”

“
What are you talking about?
”
asked Suzanne.
“
Who
are you talking about?
”

Doogie continued to be coy.
“
Let
’
s just say a certain girlfriend has caught my attention.
”

Suzanne almost choked.
“
What?
”
she screeched, her
voice rising a few octaves.
“
Please tell me you
’
re not talk
ing about Missy!
”

Doogie waggled his head up and down in a sort of tacit
nod.

“
No way!
”
exclaimed Toni.
“
Missy and Ozzie were in
love!
”

“
Not so much recently,
”
said Doogie. He took ano
th
er sip of coffee,
th
en peered across the top of his cup at Suzanne.
“
You and Missy are friends, Suzanne. How much
has she told you lately about her relationship with Ozzie?
”

Suzanne thought carefully before she answered.
“
Not much,
”
she had to admit.
“
But I don
’
t think anything
’
s changed. Of course, Missy
’
s been up to her eyeballs with preparations for the launch of Alchemy Boutique.
”

“
Huh?
”
said Doogie.

“
Alchemy,
”
said Suzanne.
“
I
’
m sure you read about it in the
Bugle.
It
’
s the new boutique in the Chandler Building, next to Root 66 Hair Salon.
”
When Doogie still looked puzzled, Suzanne added,
“
The shop that Carmen Copeland is opening.
”
Carmen Copeland was a rather flamboyant romance author who lived in neighboring Jessup. Suzanne figured that by launching Alchemy, Car
men,
in her somewhat snooty, superior manner, was attempting to instill a new level of style among the women of Kindred.