Scorched Eggs (11 page)

“You must have really worked your magic on Sheriff Doogie.”

“Not really. Why? What's going on?”

Kit's grin grew even broader. “Ricky's being arraigned this afternoon and our attorney is positive that he's going to make bail and then be remanded into the custody of his mother.”

“That's great news,” said Suzanne. “You must have hired a really good attorney.”

“Ricky's mom hired a lady lawyer from over in Jessup. Susan Atkins,” said Kit.

“I've heard of her,” said Suzanne. “And she is good. I know she even did some pro bono work for that women's shelter, Harmony House.” She hesitated. “So what exactly are you saying? That Ricky's no longer a suspect?”

“Oh, he's still a suspect,” said Kit. “But his fingerprints were definitely not on those blasting caps, and Sheriff Doogie is now looking at several other suspects.” She seemed almost breathless with the news. “Isn't that great?”

“I knew this would eventually get straightened out.”

Kit was silent for a few moments, and then she said, “Would it be okay if I hung out here for a while? Or better yet, if I helped out?”

“We'd love to have you,” said Suzanne. “But . . . you sure you're up to it?” She was also wondering how Petra would feel about Kit being here.

“My outlook is lots better now. Really hopeful, you know?”

“I can just imagine,” said Suzanne. “Well, come on, let's go in the kitchen and find you an apron. Tell Petra that you're going to be on board for the rest of the day.”

Surprise, surprise, Petra was delighted to see Kit. “We could use some help today,” she said. “It was busy for breakfast and I can just imagine what lunch will be like.”

“Probably insane,” put in Toni. “But hey! It's great to have you back, Kit. So Ricky's out on bail?”

“He will be this afternoon,” said Kit. “They can only hold a person for forty-eight hours. Then they either have to charge him or not.” She seemed pleased with her newfound grasp of the law.

“So they never did formally charge him?” said Suzanne.

“No, and I don't think they will,” said Kit. She grabbed a long black Parisian waiter's apron and draped it around her neck. “Since there isn't a shred of evidence.”

Not yet, there isn't
, thought Suzanne. But knowing Doogie, he was still out there sifting and digging.

*   *   *

W
HILE
Toni, Petra, and Kit fussed about the kitchen, Suzanne put in a quick call to the nearest DNR office. The fellow she talked to, a man by the name of Irv Humphries, was moderately helpful.

“A baby owl, huh?” said Humphries. “How old do you think it is?”

“I don't know,” said Suzanne. “Maybe a couple of weeks?”

“Well, you could drive it to the nearest Wildlife Rehabilitation Center and let them take care of it.”

“Where would that be?”

“You're calling from Kindred?”

“That's right.”

“The nearest center's about two hundred miles from you,” Humphries told her.

“Mnn, is there something else I can do?”
Aside from sending the owl in a cab? Or FedExing it?

“You could feed the owlet and keep it warm,” said Humphries. “Kind of rehabilitate it yourself. Then try to reunite it with its mother.”

“So I would feed it what?”

“Probably a ground-up mouse.”

“No. I can't do that.”

“Well then, just try some boiled hamburger and rice.”

“That'll work?” said Suzanne. “Just hamburger and rice?”

“Suzanne,” called Petra. “Stop exchanging recipes and get over here and help us!”

R
IGHT
when Suzanne was serving a ham and Brie wrap to Burt Gundelson, right in the middle of a busy lunch service, Sheriff Doogie came tromping in accompanied by two men she'd never seen before. But she could venture a guess. They were probably his arson experts.

Suzanne hustled over to greet Doogie and escorted him and his guests to the table by the window. After a fair amount of chair squeaking, feet shuffling, and glancing about, Doogie finally said, “Suzanne, these two guys were brought in because of the fire.”

“Arson experts,” she said.

“That's right,” Doogie said. “This is Norm Allman and this other guy here is Bob Deek.”

“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” said Suzanne. “Welcome to the Cackleberry Club.”

Doogie stabbed a thumb in Suzanne's direction. “That's Suzanne. She owns this place and was one of the first ones to sound the alarm on the fire.”

“It's nice to meet you,” said Deek. He had close-cropped silver hair and an almost military bearing. He was in his mid-thirties and good-looking, too.

“How's the food here?” Allman asked, cutting directly to the chase. He was older and a little paunchy with round, wire-rimmed glasses that made him look like an accountant.

“You came on the right day,” said Suzanne, cranking up the dial on her charm. “We just happen to have a terrific menu.” She figured she could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, right?

“Suzanne's right about that,” echoed Doogie. “They've got the best food in town.” He patted his ample stomach. “I should know, I'm living proof.”

Suzanne went through the menu with them, wrote down their orders, and then hustled into the kitchen.

“Doogie's brought a couple arson guys to lunch,” she told Petra. “Make sure everything is extra good, because I intend to pump them like an old rubber tire and try to get as much information as possible.”

“Our food's always extra good,” said Petra.

“Then make it extra extra good.”

*   *   *

“
T
HE
younger one's kinda cute,” Toni said, sneaking a peek through the pass-through at Sheriff Doogie's luncheon companions.

“Not bad,” Kit agreed.

“You two gals are twittering around like you're passing notes in study hall,” Petra grumped. “One of you is married and the other is . . . well . . . almost . . .”

“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” said Toni. “Besides, there's nothing wrong with looking. It's not against the law or anything.”

“Your orders are up, Suzanne,” Petra said. She placed all the food on a large silver tray, then carefully sprinkled candied pumpkin seeds atop a steaming bowl of squash and fennel soup.

Suzanne grabbed the tray and hurried back out into the café. Deek, the object of Toni's and Kit's interest, had chosen the ham and Brie wrap. Allman showed a little more restraint with his bowl of soup. And Doogie had chosen the wrap with brie cheese and ham.

Suzanne placed the men's orders in front of them and stepped back. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No,” said Deek. “But thank you. This food looks amazing.”

“Wait until you taste it,” said Suzanne. “Our chef, Petra, is quite talented.”

“It sure is a pleasure to find good food like this in a small town,” said Allman. “I was expecting some kind of greasy spoon diner, but this is a nice surprise.”

Suzanne continued to beam at them. “I'm sure you men are famished for a good meal after . . . what's it been now? A couple days of work?”

“It hasn't been easy,” agreed Doogie. “We've been at it almost nonstop.”

Suzanne continued to hover at their table even as the men dug into their lunches. “And I'm guessing you've been combing through the wreckage, looking for evidence of blasting caps?”

“That's part of what we've been doing, yes,” said Deek. “Plus, we finally received an aerial photograph of the building.”

“That's key,” said Allman.

“And now we're going to search police records for any accounts of vandalism in the area, as well as interview local gas station owners,” said Deek.

“There ain't much in the records,” Doogie said with his mouth full.

“Still,” said Deek, “when we have a potential homicide we follow a carefully set protocol, even reviewing coroner's reports and the like. Once we've amassed our evidence, we try to work out a few possible theories on what happened.”

“Deek does most of the chemical analysis—the geeky stuff—while I dig through bank records, insurance information, and tax stuff,” Allman told her.

“Fascinating,” said Suzanne, because it was. She leaned toward Deek and said, “So you're the one who'll determine if there's a connection between the fire and the blasting caps found in Ricky Wilcox's car?”

“That's right,” Deek mumbled around a mouthful of ham and Brie.

“This all sounds very tricky,” said Suzanne. “Have you been able to figure out where this particular fire started?”

“Pretty much,” said Deek. “The area with the greatest burn is generally the incendiary point. So we start there and look for burn holes in walls or floors to determine which way the fire moved. It sounds strange, but fire's almost like a living, breathing thing.”

Suzanne continued her line of questioning. “And it's possible to determine if an accelerant was used?”

“Definitely,” said Deek. “Spontaneous combustion is pretty rare unless you're the drummer for Spinal Tap.”

As Suzanne laughed politely, Doogie gave her a hard stare. He was getting a little annoyed with all her questions.

But Deek was warmed up and clearly a talker. “As far as accelerants go,” he said, “it's often as simple as looking at patterns on a wall or floor. Your V-shaped pattern means a pool of liquid, and what we call a trailer pattern means the liquid was spread from one location to another. In this case, it's certainly plausible that our suspect could have used blasting caps to ignite some type of accelerant like acetone, lacquer, or gasoline.”

“Do you think they were blasting caps from Salazar Mining?” Suzanne asked. “Or from some highway road crew?”

“Fire seldom destroys all evidence of arson,” said Deek. “So if we find evidence of blasting caps, we can use chemical signatures and serial numbers to . . .” Deek stopped abruptly and gazed across the room.

Suzanne's head swiveled to see what Deek was staring at. Then she chuckled. It was Toni. She had popped the top pearl button on her embroidered pink skintight cowboy shirt and was slinking toward them like a panther on the prowl, carrying a pot of fresh coffee.

“Helllllooo,” Toni purred.

“This is Toni,” said Suzanne. “She's one of the partners here. Although sometimes we just keep her around 'cause she looks so darned cute.”

Both Deek and Allman hastily stood up to greet Toni and shake her hand. Only Doogie remained seated, his attention focused on his lunch.

“Please, gentlemen, sit,” said Toni.

“This place just gets better and better,” Deek said with a wide grin.

“Aren't you the sweet one,” said Toni. She stretched forward, brushing up against his shoulder as she refilled his coffee cup.

“Thank you,” said Deek. He could barely take his eyes off her now.

“I could use a splash, too,” said Doogie, but Toni was focused solely on Deek.

Suzanne noted that the electricity generated between Toni and the arson investigator was fairly crackling. If Petra could plug into it, she could power her electric mixer all day long.

“Suzanne,” said Toni, never taking her eyes off Deek, “I think Petra needs you in the kitchen.”

“Really?” said Suzanne.

Toni pursed her lips. “Absolutely. Besides, I've got this under control, hon. I really do.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Suzanne mumbled as she walked away.

*   *   *

L
UNCH
might have been over, but Toni still remained seated at the table with Doogie, Deek, and Allman. Her chin rested in her palm as her eyes remained glued on the very chatty investigator. Suzanne surmised by Toni's nods, smiles, and giggles that she was drawing additional information out of them. Would it do any good? Who knew? In any case, it surely couldn't hurt.

“Is Toni still hosting her salon out there?” Petra asked.

Kit gave a cursory glance through the pass-through. “She sure is. In fact, she's got them all sort of . . . mesmerized.”

“That girl,” said Petra. “She does seem imbued with a special something.”

“More like well-endowed,” said Suzanne.

Then they heard the front door creak open and Petra said, “Did somebody else just come in? Do we have a late customer for lunch or an early customer for afternoon tea?”

“It's that awful reporter,” said Kit, still looking out into the café. She sounded nervous.

“Gene Gandle?” said Petra. “Now what does
he
want?”

“Probably to pester me,” said Suzanne as she hustled out to the café.

Gene Gandle strode across the café, hurled an angry glance at Doogie and company, then seated himself at the counter just as Suzanne slid in behind it.

“Gene,” she said, “I'm afraid you're a little late for lunch. We stopped serving fifteen minutes ago.”

Gandle flipped open his spiral-bound notebook and said, “No problem, Suzanne. I'm just here to ask a couple quick questions.”

“Let me guess,” said Suzanne. “You're still working on your fire story.”

His head bobbed on his stalklike neck. “Of course.”

Suzanne aimed a finger at the table where Doogie, Deek, and Allman still lingered with Toni. “Those are the people you should be talking to.”

“I
tried
to interview them this morning,” said Gandle, looking peeved. “But they wouldn't say a word to me. Shagged me away like some kind of mongrel dog. Can you believe it?”

“You reporters do have it tough.”

“It's an insult,” said Gandle. “Here we are . . . trying to educate and enlighten the public. But those guys . . .” His eyes fixed on Doogie and the arson investigators again. “They won't give me a single snippet of information.”

Suzanne almost laughed out loud. Here they'd already given her a torrent of information. And Toni had probably pulled out a whole lot more.

“Life sucks,” said Gandle. “And then you die.”

“Hold on, Gene,” said Suzanne. “It's not
that
bad.” She watched as Doogie stood up from the table, stretched languidly, and threw down three $10 bills. The other two men stood up and said a few more friendly words to Toni. Then they all headed out the door, probably back to the scene of the crime.

Toni came back behind the counter and said, “Hi, Gene,” in a syrupy voice. Then she slipped two of the tens into the cash drawer and popped the third ten into their glass tip jar. “Got some good information. Not bad for twenty minutes' work, huh?”

“Jeez,” said Gandle. “Did you ever think of becoming a reporter?”

“Naw,” said Toni. “I'd rather make the news.”

*   *   *

B
UT
the excitement didn't end there. Because just as Gandle picked up pen and paper, another person strolled into the Cackleberry Club.

Young, good-looking, with a smile that hinted at arrogance, the man strolled over to the counter, where Suzanne and Gandle were talking. Or, in Suzanne's case, not talking.

When Gandle caught sight of their new visitor, he screamed, “You! Again!” He sounded, Suzanne thought, like a scalded cat.

The young man basically ignored Gandle's outburst and said to Suzanne. “Ms. Dietz? I'm Bobby Boerger from the
Jessup Independent.
I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

“Another reporter?” said Suzanne. That was all she needed. Double trouble.

But Gandle wasn't nearly finished with his burst of outrage and indignation. In fact, he was just getting wound up. “What are
you
doing here?” he demanded of Boerger. “This is
my
turf. How do you have the gall to come over to Kindred and start asking questions?”

“Turf?” Boerger snorted. “Come on, Gene, what are we—the Sharks and the Jets? You want to have a gang war over this?”

Gandle was so worked up he was starting to sweat through his pale blue golf shirt. “There is something known as professional, journalistic courtesy,” he sputtered. Then he hopped off his stool, aimed his index finger at Boerger, and jabbed it hard into the man's solar plexus.

“Hey,” Boerger protested, while Gandle looked sublimely pleased with himself.

“That's it!” said Suzanne as she flew around the counter. “I've had enough from you two.” Like an angry schoolmarm herding two recalcitrant boys to detention, she grabbed Gandle firmly by the arm and dragged him into the Book Nook. Turning back to Boerger, she said, “You. You come along, too.”

Safely in the Book Nook now, Suzanne let her displeasure show. “The two of you come strolling into my nice respectable café, throw down the gauntlet, and want to have it out with pistols at high noon? This isn't Dodge City, and I'm sure not Miss Kitty!”

“But he . . .” Gandle began.

“Enough,” said Suzanne. “This is over. But if you still want to shuffle out into the parking lot and club each other like barbarians, I'm sure I can get Sheriff Doogie to come back and referee. And then he'll provide each of you with overnight accommodations while you cool off.” She glowered at each man. “So . . . are we done here?”

Each man grumped a barely audible “Yes.”

Then Gandle hissed something that Suzanne couldn't quite decipher and huffed his way back into the café and out the front door.