Scorched Eggs (10 page)

“That's all very well and good,” said Suzanne. “But I hope you realize that instead of dueling with a rapier and playing Richard III, you're going to be duded up in Victorian garb. Because the play you signed on for happens to be
Blithe Spirit
.”

*   *   *

T
HE
farm that sat across the enormous expanse of fields behind the Cackleberry Club was Suzanne's. She and Walter had purchased it as a sort of investment and, for the past few years, she had rented it to a farmer by the name of Reed Ducovny. He lived on the farm with his wife, Martha, and worked the land diligently, raising bumper crops of soybeans and Jubilee corn.

Where once dairy cows had chewed and mooed in the large, hip-roof barn, Suzanne now stabled her two horses. Correction, one horse named Mocha Gent and a mule named Grommet.

The two were best buddies and Suzanne was pleased that they kept each other company so well.

Mocha Gent was either keenly attuned to her scent or genuinely psychic. Because he let out a low whinny just as Suzanne walked past the row of empty cow stanchions and approached his box stall.

“Hey, fella.” Suzanne reached out as Mocha pressed his chest up against the gate of his stall. She scratched him behind the ears, then ran the flat of her hand down his fine Roman nose and under his bristly chin. As an extra gesture of goodwill, she leaned forward and blew out a small puff of air. Horses liked this sharing of breath and scent. It told them you were friendly and trustworthy. Or at least that's what horse whisperers had divined.

In the stall next to Mocha, Grommet shuffled about anxiously and thrust his large black head out. Suzanne stepped sideways and gave him a pat behind his enormous ears.

“Hey, nobody's leaving you out in the cold,” Suzanne told him. She sometimes rode Grommet, just to keep the old boy in shape and prove that she wasn't playing favorites. But his shuffling mule gait was a little hard to take.

“So what we're going to do,” Suzanne said, turning back to Mocha, “is do a few practice rounds today. Just in case we decide to go to that fair.” Mocha's ears shot forward as she swung open the stall gate. “You up for that?” He shifted sideways as she tossed a red and black buffalo plaid saddle blanket onto his broad back. Then she walked back out to the tack area and grabbed a brown Western saddle. She tossed it on his back, tightened the cinch, waited a few moments, and then poked him in the belly with her knee. When Mocha let out the air he'd surreptitiously gulped, she snugged the cinch again.

Three miles away, next to the City Works Garage, the Circle K Riders, a local riding club, had set up practice courses for barrel racing, keyhole racing, and pole bending.

Suzanne cut across a couple of fields, wandered down a blacktop road, and then turned in at the garage. It was your basic enormous cinder-block building painted flat gray. Inside were the large trucks that served as snowplows, road graders, and sanders when winter's ice compacted the roads. Which, throughout winter, was pretty much every day.

Suzanne and Mocha rounded the building at a brisk trot and Suzanne was pleased to see that she was the first one to arrive.

Excellent.
She could practice to her heart's content. At least until a few other riders showed up and the place turned into an impromptu rodeo ring.

The barrel racing course consisted of three barrels set up in a triangle. The object of the race was to successfully maneuver your horse through a sort of cloverleaf pattern, galloping as fast as possible as you rounded the three barrels. It was a timed trial and the horse and rider who completed the course the fastest was the winner.

Suzanne aimed Mocha at the marked entrance to the course, gave him a sharp kick, and took off. They flew across the entrance, heading for the first barrel on their right. They whipped around this barrel in a half circle and headed for the second barrel. This was a left turn and Suzanne had to shift her weight to make sure Mocha went into the turn with the correct lead. Then they flew down the course, circled the back barrel, and headed for the finish line.

They did it four, five, six times. Suzanne worked on keeping her legs securely along the girth, hugging the barrels tightly, and sprinting like crazy down the homestretch.

When she thought they had it, she walked Mocha slowly in a circle for ten minutes to cool him down, then she took him back to the start. Over on the cement apron, in front of the garage, a car was parked. She wondered if they were watching her, or if it was just a maintenance worker who'd come to grab some tools. Either way, she gave a friendly wave and then turned back toward the course.

One more time
, Suzanne told herself.
And this time we'll go for broke.

As they dashed across the starting line, Suzanne glanced at her watch and registered the time. Then she gritted her teeth, focused all her energy on her horse, scrunched down in the saddle, and tried to be the best rider possible.

The barrels flew by in a blur. A right turn, a left turn, and then another left.

As they crossed the finish line, she looked down at her watch. The time was good. Eighteen seconds. It wasn't exact, of course, but she figured she just might be in the ball game.

Maybe they did have a chance this Friday. Maybe.

“You did great,” she told Mocha as she walked him over to a water trough. She sat on his back as he sucked in water, stomped in the dust, then took in a little more water.

As they turned for home, Suzanne noticed the parked car, but nobody was in it. Lucky, she thought. Lucky she had this course all to herself. Lucky she had this horse and a healthy dose of chutzpah. She knew there were cowgirls younger and more experienced than herself. Tough rodeo veterans in their twenties who chewed gum like it was a wad of tobacco, and were fearless about spurring their horses around the barrels to take home another blue ribbon.

We'll see
, she told herself.
We'll try to squeeze in one or two more practice sessions, and then we'll see
. Better to err on the side of caution.

Instead of riding down the blacktop road again, Suzanne cut across a hay meadow and ducked into a nearby woods. This trail was a little rocky, a little steep, but it would probably cut a half mile off her return trip.

And it was pretty in the woods as they jounced along a faint trail.

Whenever the breeze picked up, yellow and gold leaves fluttered in the air, raining down in the sunlight like butterflies on the wing.

The day had gotten warmer, too, and it felt good. Winter would be here soon enough and then riding would be curtailed to just short jaunts around the barnyard.

They crossed over a narrow streambed, the water burbling over round, humpy rocks. Mocha, sure-footed and as careful as a trail horse, was picking his way gingerly, when something whizzed past Suzanne's head.

Shweeek!

Suzanne flinched instinctively.

What on earth?

Her heart nearly thumping out of her chest, her body pumping out a hot shot of adrenaline, Suzanne suddenly realized what had happened.

It had been a rifle shot. A very close call with live ammo.

Suzanne's head spun one way, then the other, as her eyes searched frantically through the woods, trying to spot whoever had fired at her.

“Whoa, whoa!” she shouted out. “Don't shoot! I'm riding here.”

No sound came back to her save the whisper of wind through the poplars and aspens.

Was someone out doing target practice? Although she really had experienced the feeling of live ammo.

So, a hunter?

Suzanne dug her heels into Mocha's flanks and spurred him forward. She knew the smartest thing, the safest thing, would be to get out of there as fast as possible.

But as she galloped down the trail, her mind whirring and her leather saddle creaking, she remembered that hunting season didn't open for another month.

R
INGS
of red peppers sizzled in Petra's cast-iron frying pan, giving off a sweet, pungent aroma. Once they were crispy on one side, she edged a spatula underneath each one and flipped it over. Then she cracked a farm-fresh egg inside each pepper ring and let them fry. Voilà. There you had it—eggs in a frame.

Of course, Petra had another version, too. That was when she toasted a nice thick chunk of sourdough bread, used a biscuit cutter to make a hole in the center, tossed the bread in the pan, and dropped an egg in to fry. That was version two of eggs in a frame.

“Holy baloney,” said Toni, as she slewed her way through the swinging door and into the kitchen. “The joint's really jumpin' out there.”

“It's Monday,” said Petra as she cracked eggs one-handed into a speckled ceramic bowl. “We're always jam-packed on Monday.”

“Aw, we're busy almost every day,” said Toni. She handed Petra a bunch of orders and turned to Suzanne, who was busy making toast. “Aren't we?”

“And thank goodness for it,” said Suzanne. The Cackleberry Club was a business, after all. And Suzanne was well aware that making a profit was a far cry from just eking out a break-even living. What she liked to think of as her diversification—the café, Book Nook, Knitting Nest, and special event hosting—had proven to be a fairly dynamic business combination. When other small businesses were struggling or even shutting their doors, the Cackleberry Club just seemed to keep steaming full speed ahead.

“I suppose our customers are still buzzing about the fire?” said Petra as she tossed a handful of chicken and rice sausages onto her grill.

“That and Ricky Wilcox's arrest,” said Toni. “That's mighty big news, too.” She grabbed a strawberry, tossed it into the air, and caught it in her mouth. “I still can't believe that wedding scene,” she said, chewing. “Just awful.”

“So was Hannah's death,” Petra said with grim determination.

“Somehow,” said Suzanne, “I just don't see a connection between Ricky Wilcox and Hannah's death.”

“Blasting caps,” said Petra.

“But Ricky didn't have anything against Hannah, did he?” said Suzanne.

“Those blasting caps could have been planted in Ricky's car trunk,” said Toni. “Easy as pie.”

“By who?” Petra demanded.

Toni shrugged. “Don't know. Somebody who wanted to frame Ricky? Or smoke-screen the police investigation?”

“Really,” said Suzanne, “it could have been anybody who works out at that mine.” She wondered if Doogie had taken a hard look at all the people who had access to blasting caps. There were highway crews who did blasting, too, right? She'd have to ask him when he came in. And she figured Doogie was sure to come in fairly soon. Monday was when Petra always baked her famous cranberry-nut bread.

“I feel really awful about Hannah,” said Toni, “but I'm also bummed that Kit's wedding never took place.” She accepted the side order of toast that Suzanne had just buttered and placed it on her serving tray. “On the other hand, I ended up having a fairly decent time at Schmitt's Bar after all.”

“Because you were with Junior?” said Suzanne.

“Yeah, I guess he still melts my butter,” said Toni.

Petra gave a little shudder. “I knew there was a reason I didn't stay very long.”

“It got a little wild after you left,” said Toni. “Lots of partying and—well, it wouldn't hurt you none, Petra, if you let go and danced yourself silly to a Beyoncé power ballad once in a while.”

“No thanks,” said Petra.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
trailed Toni out into the café and kicked it into high gear. While Toni distributed steaming plates of food and took orders from newly arrived customers, Suzanne got busy brewing pots of Sumatran roast coffee and English breakfast tea. Then, looking around the Cackleberry Club and noting three empty tables, she made a few last-minute adjustments to table settings before the rest of their morning customers came tumbling in.

By ten o'clock there was a pleasant hum in the place. Though all the tables were filled, most of their customers had finished breakfast. Now they were just kicking back and enjoying a final cup of coffee, having neighborly chats, and planning their week.

“I think that's going to be it,” Suzanne said to Petra as she slid into the kitchen. “Probably no more breakfast orders.” If there was a pleasant hum in the café, there was an even more pleasant aroma in the kitchen. “Mmn, what smells so good?”

“I've got two loaves of cranberry-nut bread in the oven and now I'm working on my pumpkin bread,” said Petra. She turned a large lump of dough onto a floured board. Then, as an afterthought, she pulled off her wedding ring. Petra was married, but her husband, Donny, lived in the Center City Nursing Home. Donny had Alzheimer's and barely recognized Petra anymore. Still, three or four nights a week, Petra made the trip over, taking cookies and lemon bars to Donny, talking to him, holding his hand while she watched TV with him. The fact that she had to introduce herself to Donny every time didn't seem to deter her. For Petra, marriage really did mean for better or worse, till death do you part.

“I love watching your hands when you knead bread dough,” said Suzanne. “They always look so strong and confident.”

“People get freaked out about making bread,” said Petra. “But it's not really that difficult. Of course, you have to use the very best ingredients and know what you're doing.” She stopped kneading for a moment and looked pointedly at her wedding ring, which rested on the nearby counter. “You know what?”

“What?” Suzanne said. Petra's face had assumed a strange, almost frightened look. “What's wrong?”

“Just now, when I took off my ring to knead the bread, I remembered something that Hannah mentioned to me . . . oh, two or three weeks ago.”

“What's that?”

“That she misplaced her wedding ring,” said Petra.

“And you think that's significant . . . why?”

“I don't know. I just find it strange. Like maybe her husband, Jack, took the ring and did something with it. Like it might be symbolic in some weird way . . . that he didn't want to be with Hannah anymore.”

“Or
she
could have simply misplaced it,” said Suzanne.

“There is that,” agreed Petra.

“Wait a minute, did she mention the ring before she told you about Jack? When she said he might be having an affair?”

“I think it was before,” Petra said slowly.

“Then it's probably nothing.”

“Probably,” said Petra. “Still, it seems a little strange.”

“Maybe.” Suzanne knew that Petra was still jumpy about Hannah's death, so she figured her mind might be a little muddled, too. She couldn't blame Petra for trying to make sense out of a tragedy.

Petra continued to knead her dough with great gusto, punching and rolling it, adding a pinch or two of flour as she went along.

Suzanne pointed at their overflowing trash can. “Do you want me to take the trash out and dump it? It's awfully full.”

“And stinky, too,” said Petra. “I was trimming out a couple of baked chickens for our chicken salad. And . . . well, there's a reason chicken is also called fowl, or in this case, foul.”

“Then I'll run the garbage outside,” said Suzanne.

“Oh,” said Petra. “Do you think any bittersweet has popped up in the back woods yet? I was thinking a few sprigs of those little red berries would look really great nestled among the crocks of cattails and milk pods that Toni put on the tables.”

“I'll be sure to take a look.”

Suzanne gathered up the black plastic bag of trash, wrapped a twist tie around the opening, and hauled it out the back door. The sun was shining down in a deep cerulean blue sky and the temperature was edging up to around sixty. By mid-afternoon it was going to be a perfect day.

After tossing the bag of trash in their Dumpster, Suzanne was careful to latch it. Bands of marauding raccoons and clever coyotes roamed the countryside. And those animals would like nothing better than to do a little Dumpster diving and rustle up a tasty meal of bread crusts, day-old donuts, and chicken parts.

Suzanne crossed the packed-earth parking lot and stepped into the woodlot at the back of the property. It was thick with poplars, cedar trees, and wild buckthorn. Her own little bit of the north woods wild country. Vines snaked out to grab her feet as she moved along, trying to find a sprig or two of bittersweet growing among the underbrush.

Click click . . . cheeee.

Suzanne stopped abruptly in her tracks.

What?

She stiffened. After the potshot somebody had taken at her yesterday, either real or imagined, she suddenly felt jumpy and on edge.

Click . . . cheeee.

There was that sound again.

Suzanne studied the thicket of trees that surrounded her. Nothing. No squirrels, raccoons, or even people. So what was it? She moved stealthily forward as the grass just ahead of her stirred gently. She stopped, leaned forward, and peered down. And there, huddled no more than two feet away from her, was a tiny blob of fur.

At first she thought it might be a baby bunny.

But there were no floppy ears or cotton tail, just a tiny, puffy creature.

She knelt down and stared at it more carefully. Not fur, but downy feathers. And when big eyes, enormous eyes stared back at her, she knew it was a baby owl.

Oh no. What should she do?

Suzanne knew there were feral cats that prowled the neighborhood. When Baxter and Scruff came to work with her and were tied out back, the cats wisely stayed away. But when the dogs weren't around, she was pretty sure that Petra, kindhearted soul that she was, put out scraps of leftover food for the cats.

No way could she let a cat pounce on this unsuspecting little owl.

Pulling off her apron, Suzanne wrapped it gently around the little owl and gathered it up. Then slowly, carefully, she carried the owl back to the Cackleberry Club. Outside the back door, she found an empty cardboard box. She bunched the apron into the bottom of the box and set the little owl on top of it.

“Look at this,” said Suzanne as she eased her way in the back door. “Look what I found.”

Petra took a peek. “Jeepers. What is it?”

“A baby owl.”

“Where'd the little thing come from?”

“Out back,” said Suzanne. “I think it must have fallen out of its nest.”

“Well, can you put it back?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Unless the mother has already rejected it.”

“Your mother rejected you?” said Toni as she barged into the kitchen. Then she saw Suzanne standing there, holding the cardboard box in her arms. “What have you got there? Some kind of special delivery?”

Click click.

“Huh?” said Toni. “What the heck is that? A rattlesnake?”

“Hardly,” said Suzanne. “It's a baby owl.”

“Technically an owlet,” said Petra. “Suzanne found it out back. Poor little critter must have fallen out of its nest.”

Toni looked at both of them as if they were crazy. “What are you gonna do with it?”

“I don't know,” said Suzanne. “Maybe try to get it into the witness protection program?”

Toni tiptoed closer to the box and peered in. “Hmm, it's actually kind of cute. Like a little hair ball with eyes.”

“What I'm going to do,” said Suzanne, “is call the Department of Natural Resources and see if they've got any bright ideas.”

“But first you gotta do the menu,” said Petra. “Menu first, owl later.”

“Owlet,” said Toni.

*   *   *

E
VERY
day, Suzanne wrote Petra's luncheon menu on the chalkboard in the café, and today was no different. She scanned the index card Petra had given her, nodded to herself at the delicious selections, and then picked up a piece of bright yellow chalk and began printing.

There was chicken salad on cranberry-nut bread, chicken paprikash, squash and fennel soup with a cheese popover, a pita bread vegetarian pizza, and a wrap with Brie cheese and honey-glazed ham.

There was also a Ritz cracker and strawberry pie. So Suzanne used a piece of pink chalk to make a cartoon drawing of a wedge of pie and printed under it,
Strawberry pie, $2.95 a slice
.

Suzanne never bothered to list the rest of their goodies, because most of the customers knew there was always a fresh assortment of sticky buns, cookies, lemon bars, muffins, and scones to be had. In fact, most of their enticing baked goods were on display in the circular glass pastry case that sat atop the marble counter.

Because there was still a good thirty minutes before the luncheon crowd began easing their way in, Suzanne went over to the sputtering old cooler in the corner and checked the shelves. She had wheels of Mike Mullen's cheese, a good supply of homemade banana bread, jars of sweet pickles, canned jellies and jams, and cardboard trays filled with zucchini squash. These were items that local producers brought in to the Cackleberry Club to sell. It was really a win-win situation for everyone. Suzanne took a small percentage of retail sales and the growers and producers got the lion's share.

She knew one woman who paid for her daughter's ballet lessons just on what she earned from selling her potato rolls and pickles.

As Suzanne's eyes scanned the shelves, she was suddenly aware of a pouf of cool air as the front door opened, and then someone creeping up slowly behind her. She wheeled around to find Kit Kaslik regarding her with a shy smile on her face.

“Kit!” she said, startled by what was obviously a huge change in mood.

“Suzanne.” Kit seemed as happy as the proverbial Cheshire cat. “How can I thank you?”

“I don't know,” said Suzanne. “Maybe you should tell me what I did.”