Scorched Eggs (12 page)

Suzanne looked at Boerger. “Do you have something nasty to say, too?”

“May I have a cup of coffee, please?”

Suzanne stared at him for a few seconds. “Yes, you can. Provided you remain on your best behavior.”

Boerger put up his right hand like a Boy Scout taking an oath, and a crooked grin creased his face. “I promise.”

*   *   *

B
OERGER
perched at the lunch counter while a few customers began filing in for tea and scones, and a few men in overalls arrived for coffee and pie. It was what they always referred to as their change of shift. Which also meant the pace was a lot more relaxed.

True to his word, Boerger remained on his best behavior. Suzanne poured him a cup of coffee, gave him a bowl of peach cobbler, and then said, “Now what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“Just a few things about the fire that took place last Friday.”

“That's what I figured.”

“But first, may I say . . . this peach cobbler is outstanding. Did you by any chance bake it yourself?”

“No,” said Suzanne. “Petra did. But I'll be sure to pass along your compliments.” She folded her arms across her chest, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of questions.

“So,” said Boerger, “I understand the sheriff found a number of blasting caps in the trunk of Ricky Wilcox's car? And then he rushed in and actually stopped the poor guy's wedding? I guess you don't see that sort of thing every day, huh?”

“Thank goodness, no.”

“So what's your take on all of this? Do you believe Wilcox is a legitimate suspect?”

“What does my opinion matter?” Suzanne asked.

Boerger favored her with a winning smile. “You helped sound the alarm, you're one of the people who's in the know and fairly close to Sheriff Doogie . . .”

“You've been asking around about me,” said Suzanne. She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or unnerved.

Boerger shrugged. “I try to be a good reporter and cover all the bases.”

“So you're asking me if I think Ricky Wilcox was responsible for the fire?” said Suzanne.

“Yes.”

“No,” said Suzanne.

“No what? No, you won't answer my question or no, you don't think he had anything to do with it?”

“I think,” said Suzanne, “and this is complete conjecture on my part . . . that Ricky Wilcox might have been set up.” Suzanne noticed that, where Gandle was fond of spiral notebooks, Boerger used an iPad. She hadn't seen him type on it yet, so she was pretty sure he was recording their conversation.

“Sounds like you're pretty sure of yourself,” said Boerger.

“I'm friendly with Ricky's fiancée and, knowing her as I do, trust her judgment. If she had any hesitation about Ricky's character she never would have agreed to marry him.”
Other than the fact that she was pregnant
, Suzanne thought to herself.

“Not the most quantitative way to measure guilt,” said Boerger, “but I'll take it.” He cocked his head and said, “You know, I've heard a few things about you.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, that you're blessed with excellent people smarts and a kind of sixth sense. And that you've worked with Sheriff Doogie several times before in solving local crimes.”

He gave her a shy, almost boyish smile and Suzanne suddenly realized that this young, good-looking reporter was flirting with her.

“How old are you?” Suzanne asked.

Boerger's eyes crinkled. “Twenty-seven. Why? How old are you?”

Suzanne put her elbows on the counter and leaned forward. “Old enough to know better. Old enough to know when I'm being played.”

*   *   *

B
Y
four o'clock, Toni and Kit were clearing the last of the tables while Suzanne sat at a table by the window, scratching ideas into her notebook. Sunlight streamed through the filmy curtains, imparting a late-afternoon glow. Even their Greek chorus of ceramic chickens, perched high up on the wooden shelves, looked happy and content.

When the door from the kitchen creaked open, they all turned to look.

“I am dog tired,” Petra declared. “And feeling as creaky as this old door.”

“Nothing a shot of WD-40 won't fix,” said Toni. “For the door, I mean.”

“You deserve to be tired,” said Suzanne. “It was a hectic day.”

Still wearing her signature Crocs, Petra squished her way across the café and dropped into the chair next to Suzanne. “You're working on the dinner theater menu?”

Suzanne nodded. “Sort of. Mostly just going over the menu card you gave me and seeing what else we can add in.”

“I still like the idea of mini meat pies for appetizers,” said Petra.

“Agreed,” said Suzanne.

“And I'd love to take advantage of some of the lovely brussels sprouts I've been seeing at farm stands around town,” said Petra. “So I'm definitely thinking a bubble and squeak.”

“What's that?” said Toni, who was pushing a broom nearby.

“A bubble and squeak is a kind of traditional English vegetable casserole,” Petra explained. “With carrots, broccoli, potatoes, brussels sprouts . . .”

“Weird name,” said Toni.

“And then roast beef with Yorkshire pudding,” said Suzanne. “With some good old-fashioned soda bread.”

“And we can't forget the scorched eggs,” said Petra.

“Scorched?” Toni made a face. “You mean burned? Yuck.”

“Oh, you'll like them,” said Petra. “Scorched eggs is just the old Scottish term for eggs that were originally cooked on the hearth. They're basically hard-boiled eggs wrapped in meat and a tasty batter. Now they mostly go by the name Scotch eggs.”

“That does sound a lot better,” agreed Toni.

“And for dessert?” said Suzanne.

“What else but a trifle?” said Petra. “I'll do a heavy sponge cake diced and mixed with fresh fruit, walnuts, and pudding.”

“A pudding cake,” said Toni, liking the idea.

“And some British-inspired tea,” said Suzanne. “Black tea, like a Darjeeling or an oolong.”

Toni drifted closer to their table. “Have you thought about how we should arrange the café?” she asked. “So everyone gets a clear view of the stage?”

“Since the Book Nook and Knitting Nest are going to serve as backstage changing rooms,” said Suzanne, “we should hang curtains across those doorways. And then another larger curtain in front to serve as the main stage curtain.”

“Who's going to engineer all that?” asked Toni. “Not Junior, he'll just screw it up.”

“I can get Ricky to do it,” said Kit.

Three pairs of eyes were suddenly focused on her.

“Really?” said Suzanne.

“Sure,” said Kit. “He's very handy when it comes to that kind of thing.”

“Well . . . okay,” said Petra. She flapped a hand. “The stage will be at the far end of the café, with the fortune-telling table . . .”

“Good thing
Blithe Spirit
has a fairly small set,” put in Toni.

“That's the exact reason we steered the Kindred Community Players toward that play,” said Suzanne.

“So,” Petra continued, “we'll borrow that big blue velvet curtain from the church basement and Ricky will hang it across the end of the café.”

“Perfect,” said Toni.

“Wait,” said Suzanne. “We forgot one thing.” She gave Petra a sly conspiratorial wink.

“What?” said Toni, not knowing she was being set up.

“You're right,” said Petra, trying hard not to crack up. “We forgot all about the kidney pie.”

“What?” Toni's voice rose in a tremulous squawk. “That's not dessert, that's a medical experiment!”

I
T
had been a hectic day so far. But Suzanne was energized after her discussion with Doogie and the arson investigators, and quickly formulated a plan to visit Bill and Jenny Probst at the Kindred Bakery. With their bakery directly across the street from the crime scene, they had a unique perspective. Plus they'd been the very first ones to report the fire. Suzanne decided she'd chat them up and see what they knew.

But first things first. Petra was hosting a late-afternoon knitting group today. Suzanne knew that Petra was having a difficult time dealing with Hannah Venable's death and was kind of dreading Hannah's candlelight memorial tonight. That, coupled with the fact that she'd been slaving over a hot stove all day, meant she surely deserved a couple of hours of quiet relaxation with her knitting friends. So Suzanne had volunteered to straighten up the Knitting Nest.

It wasn't tricky, just a simple matter of arranging a semicircle of chairs, making sure their colorful yarns were enticingly displayed in baskets, and readying the knitting needles and felting pads. Suzanne enjoyed her work and hummed as she went along. It was peaceful and quiet in here and the little craft area gave off a reassuring vibe.

Ten minutes later, Suzanne waved good-bye and was out the door and on her way to the Kindred Bakery. That was the nice thing about living in a small town—everything was within a quick drive or a pleasant walk. With the late afternoon still bright and sunny, Suzanne cranked her windows down and reveled in the warmth. It was the exact kind of day that answered everyone's question when they inevitably cried, “Why do we live here?” when they were hip-deep in snow and shivering from twenty-below windchill in mid-January.

The ring-ding of a bell announced Suzanne's entry into the bakery, where she was suddenly surrounded by the sweet aromas of sugar, cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg.

Bill Probst poked his head up from behind the donut counter and said, “Hey, Suzanne. What can I get you? We've got some chive and onion rolls if you're interested.”

“I'll take a dozen,” said Suzanne.

“I'll give you two dozen,” said Bill. “Take a bag to Petra, she might want to order some for the café.”

While Bill packaged up the rolls, Suzanne said, “I was wondering if I could ask you and Jenny a couple of questions about the fire.”

“Sure,” said Bill. “I don't know what we can . . . Jenny! Can you come out here for a minute?”

Jenny Probst came dashing out from the back, a white baker's apron and cap covering her paisley shirt and head of reddish blond curls.

“Suzanne,” Jenny said. She darted toward one of the cases, grabbed a roll, and placed it on a paper plate. “You've got to sample one of our maple-glazed pumpkin swirls.” She rolled her eyes. “To die for.”

“Suzanne wants to ask us about the fire,” Bill said.

Suzanne took a bite of roll. “Good,” she said. Then, “I was just wondering if you guys noticed anything unusual last Friday.”

Jenny and Bill exchanged glances. Then Bill said, “Not really.”

“We didn't see much,” said Jenny.

“I smelled smoke,” said Bill. “At first I thought it was from
our
ovens, but when I looked out the front window I saw there was a boil of smoke coming from the County Services Bureau.”

“Bill yelled at me to call 911,” said Jenny. “So I did.”

“That's when I looked out and saw you running out of Root 66,” said Bill.

“And I heard the big explosion while I was on the phone with the dispatcher,” said Jenny.

Bill shook his head at Suzanne. “Never seen anything like that . . . hope to never see anything like it again. Praise the Lord
you
were okay.”

“I jumped out of the way pretty fast,” said Suzanne. “But . . . you didn't see anything out of the ordinary? People hanging around the building earlier? Maybe Ricky Wilcox or somebody else?”

“Nope,” said Bill. “The Wilcox kid has been in here, sure, but I never saw him hanging around that particular building.”

“What about Jack Venable?” said Suzanne.

Bill's eyes slid over to meet Jenny's.

“What?” said Suzanne.

“Tell her,” said Jenny.

“I don't want to be a tattletale,” said Bill. “But I have seen Jack Venable driving by here quite a few times in the last couple of weeks.”

“We told Sheriff Doogie the same thing,” Jenny volunteered.

“I think Jack was checking to see if Hannah's car was parked outside,” said Bill. “For what reason, I don't know.”

“Tell her about the argument,” said Jenny, her eyes widening.

“Oh, Jack and Hannah had a kind of shouting match one morning,” said Bill. “About a week ago. I don't know what it was about, but it was over pretty quick.”

“Interesting,” said Suzanne.

“It is,” said Jenny. “But from what we've been hearing, from the rumors around town, there are quite a few suspects.”

“That's my understanding, too,” said Suzanne.

“You know who you could talk to,” said Bill, “is Joe Dodd next door. He's kind of gossipy and he's got cameras. Because of the type of merchandise he deals in.”

“Thanks,” said Suzanne. “I'll do that.” She dug in her purse for her wallet, but Bill held up a hand.

“Compliments of the house,” he told her.

*   *   *

D
ODD
'
S
Pawn Shop couldn't have looked more out of place in quaint downtown Kindred. Next door to the blue-shingled bakery, the pawn shop, with its cinder-block construction and barred windows, seemed like it would be more at home in a run-down industrial zone.

There was no tinkling bell on the dented steel door to announce Suzanne's arrival, just an annoying, computerized beep. She followed the line of metal shelves that held stacks of used electronics, sporting goods, CDs, musical instruments, and snow tires, thinking this was a business that thrived on human misfortune. Desperation caused good people to come here and sell their possessions.

Rounding a bright yellow plastic kayak, Suzanne headed for a glass counter where the owner, Joe Dodd, was standing. He was polishing a pair of silver candlesticks and humming a tuneless song.

“Excuse me?” said Suzanne.

Dodd looked up. “Help you?” he said. He was rail thin with a narrow face and dark pools of eyes. A faint scar showed at the corner of his mouth. Suzanne had heard something about a hunting knife accident. Then again, you never know.

“Looking for something special?” Dodd asked. He would have been downright creepy if his voice hadn't sounded so friendly.

“I hope so,” said Suzanne. “I'm Suzanne Dietz and I . . .”

“The Cackleberry Club,” said Dodd, pointing a smudged finger at her. “You serve those nice maraschino cherry scones.”

“Only on Thursday,” said Suzanne.

“Whatever,” said Dodd. “They're good. How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if I could ask you about last Friday's fire.”

“What do you want to know?” asked Dodd.

“Anything you've got.”

“We don't exactly have picture windows facing the street,” said Dodd. “So I wasn't really aware of the whole mess until the building blew up and the fire trucks came screaming in.”

“You catch anything on your cameras?”

“Sheriff Doogie already asked me about that. Took a look at the tape, too.” Dodd shook his head. “Nothing caught his attention.”

“Did you see anybody hanging out around the County Services Building? Jack Venable, Ricky Wilcox, a guy named Marty Wolfson, or . . .”

Dodd cocked a finger at her. “That kid that was arrested. Wilcox.”

“He was hanging around?”

“Not hanging around. He came in here a week ago and bought two gold wedding bands.”

“What?” said Suzanne. She wasn't sure if she was more surprised at Ricky coming in here or Dodd selling wedding bands. Finally she said, “You actually sell wedding bands?”

Dodd pretended to be offended. “Rings happen to be my stock-in-trade. I weigh the gold and charge according to the current market rate, so my prices are more than fair. Yup, we're always on the lookout for used rings to polish up and resell. You have no idea how many people come in and want to sell their wedding rings. Divorced guys, angry women, you name it.” He chuckled. “I've seen it all. Had a ring thrown at me, too.”

Suzanne thought for a minute. “Have you bought any rings recently?”

“Sure,” Dodd replied with a crocodile smile that made Suzanne's skin crawl.

“From who?”

“I couldn't tell you offhand. All sorts of people come through these doors. The economy being what it is, business is booming.”

“Do you think you could check?” Suzanne knew she might be grasping at straws, but she'd learned that sometimes the smallest detail could yield a bit of information.

“I suppose,” said Dodd. “The state attorney general requires us to keep records on that sort of transaction—they're always worried about stolen goods.”

“I can't imagine why,” said Suzanne.

Dodd disappeared into a back room for a few minutes, and Suzanne had the uncomfortable feeling she was being watched on closed-circuit TV. When he returned he was clutching a black ledger and had a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He laid the book on the counter and said, “Let's take a look-see.” He flipped through a few pages and said, “How far back do you want to go?”

“Maybe . . . three weeks?” said Suzanne.

“Three weeks,” muttered Dodd, flipping more pages.

While Dodd was sorting through his ledger, the front door beeped and a customer shuffled into the store. Suzanne didn't turn around to look, but instead stayed focused on Dodd.

Finally, when he'd perused his notations, Dodd straightened up and said, “Well, isn't this interesting.”

“What?” said Suzanne.

His dark eyes bored into her. “Jack Venable sold me a gold wedding band some twelve days ago.”

“Really?”

“Sounds kind of hinky, doesn't it?” said Dodd. “Guess I better tell the sheriff.” He let loose another chuckle that turned into a smoker's hack.

Suzanne thought this sale not only
sounded
hinky, but was downright incriminating. Had Hannah's husband actually stolen her wedding ring and sold it? If the low-down, dirty coward had done something like that, would he also have had the guts to kill her?

“Is the ring still here?” Suzanne asked. “Do you have it?”

“Sure,” said Dodd. “Why? You want to buy it?”

“No thanks. But call the sheriff, will you? Tell him about this?”

“Sure,” said Dodd. “You got it. Anything to help.”

Suzanne was practically shaking with anger as she made her way out of the shop. Now that there was actual documented evidence that Jack Venable had sold Hannah's ring, Suzanne decided she was going to make it her mission in life to find out why. And put him behind bars if he deserved it!

As she brushed past a stack of truck tires, Suzanne glanced sideways at the customer who'd just come in. And her heart caught in her throat.

Marty Wolfson was standing silently in front of a locked glass cabinet that was packed with a huge assortment of handguns. His eyes seemed to scuttle across the snub-nosed pistols and guns that carried scary names like Glock and SIG Sauer. He looked just as angry as he had when he'd confronted Doogie at the Cackleberry Club last Saturday morning!

Dear Lord, this can't be good
, Suzanne told herself. And on the heels of that,
I have to tell Doogie about this, too!

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
was grateful for the fresh air and sunshine as she hurried out to her car. Hopefully, a protracted background check would delay, if not prevent, Wolfson from getting his hands on a gun. The man seemed like a ticking time bomb and surely had no business donning a holstered weapon.

Grabbing her phone, Suzanne quickly dialed Doogie's office number. He answered on the second ring.

“Doogie,” Suzanne said, a little breathless.

“This ain't a good time,” Doogie told her. “I'm up to my ears in alligators.”

“I have to talk to you—now. It's really important.”

“Life-and-death important?”

“Well . . . not quite
that
hot. But I just picked up some new information that could be critical to your arson case.”

She heard him sigh and then mutter something that sounded like, “Driscoll, did you ever find that blah-blah-blah?” Then he was back on the line. “Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Well, I'm downtown right now. Parked outside the bakery.”

“Five minutes,” said Doogie. “I'll be there in five minutes.”

Doogie was there in eight minutes, which was about as on time as he ever got. And Suzanne was jumping out of her skin to talk to him. Of course, Doogie took his own sweet time, parking his car, hoisting himself out of his cruiser, walking slowly over to her car as if he was doing a perimeter check.

She rolled down the window so he could lean in.

“What was so danged important that you had to pull me away from my work?” Doogie asked.

She flipped a finger toward Dodd's Pawn Shop. “I was just in there, talking to Joe Dodd. Did you know that he buys and sells wedding rings?”

“Yup,” said Doogie. “Fact is, I was in there checking his surveillance tapes. And a couple months ago, when Mrs. Davenport's sapphire ring went missing, we had to go through his inventory and sales records.”

“Take a wild guess who was in his store recently and sold a wedding ring.”

“Just tell me straight out,” said Doogie. “I got no time for games.”