Scorched Eggs (13 page)

“Jack Venable sold Hannah's wedding ring,” said Suzanne.

That clearly got a rise out of Doogie. He gave a low whistle. “Seriously? He told you that?”

“It was in his records,” said Suzanne. She waited a couple of beats and then said, “Don't you wonder why? Don't you think this shows Jack must have been up to no good?” Suzanne could see the wheels turning in Doogie's head. The man was no fool. In fact, he was a chess player who was generally three moves ahead of his opponent. Of course he recognized the implication.

Doogie played it cool, though. He stroked his chin and said, “Gotta think about this.”

“There's something else,” said Suzanne. “When I was leaving Dodd's I saw Marty Wolfson shopping for guns.”

“Long guns or handguns?”

“Handguns,” said Suzanne.

“That's not good.”

“No kidding,” said Suzanne. “And he still had that hostility thing going, too.”

“I guess that means I should . . .”

Click click . . . ha-hoooo!

Doogie reacted as if he'd been punched in the gut. He hopped backward, his hand groping for his revolver as he nearly tripped over his own size-twelve cop shoes. Then he recovered, shook it off, and returned to Suzanne's car. He peered carefully at the box on the backseat. “What the heck you got in there anyway? A wild bobcat?”

“It's a baby owl,” said Suzanne. “Technically an owlet.”

Doogie seemed relieved that he wasn't going to be attacked. “Something you found?”

“That's right.”

“Fell out of its nest, huh?”

“I suppose,” said Suzanne. She was disappointed that Doogie hadn't reacted more strongly to her news about Marty Wolfson and his predilection for guns.

“Or maybe the owl was pushed out,” said Doogie. “You know, natural selection and all that. Survival of the fittest.”

“Hah,” said Suzanne. “You're a fine one to talk.”

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
sat in her car, watching as Marty Wolfson exited Dodd's Pawn Shop. Once he'd climbed into his jacked-up Ford F-150 and driven away, she dialed the number at the Cackleberry Club.

“Hello?” said Petra.

“You okay?” Suzanne asked.

“Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be?” Petra was sounding a lot more upbeat, like she was back to her old spunky self.

“I need to tell you something,” said Suzanne.

“Well, make it snappy,” said Petra. “I've got a pan of blond brownies in the oven and I don't want them to turn into brunettes.”

“You're not going to like this, but I stopped at Dodd's Pawn Shop . . .”

“You're right, I don't like it. Any more than if you'd stopped at a tattoo parlor, strip club, dirty movie, or . . . well, I don't know.” She chuckled. “I think I just ran out of sins.”

“Petra,” said Suzanne. “That funny feeling you had about Hannah's wedding ring? You were right. Turns out Jack Venable sold it to the pawn shop.”

There was a long-drawn-out silence and then Petra said, “What?” And then, “That just breaks my heart. If Jack would do something that nasty and underhanded, could he . . . um . . . ?”

“Could he have started the fire that killed Hannah?” said Suzanne. “I don't know.”

“Have you talked to Doogie about this yet? About the ring?”

“I just got done talking to him.”

“What did he say?” asked Petra.

“Doogie's still playing it close to the vest,” said Suzanne. “Jack Venable may be his prime suspect now, but Ricky Wilcox is still on the hook, too. Oh, and I ran into Marty Wolfson. He was looking at guns.”

Petra sighed deep and long. “Well, when do you think Doogie is gonna make up his mind about who the killer is? When is there going to be an arrest?”

“I have no idea,” said Suzanne. “I think he needs more concrete evidence.”

“I wish we could get
some
sort of resolution,” said Petra.

“I know. But take it easy, okay? We can talk more at the memorial tonight.”

“Okay,” said Petra. “Bring a candle.”

“I'll do better than that,” said Suzanne. “I'll bring Sam.”

S
OME
stereotypes are true—men really do like steak. Sam, of course, was no exception, and Suzanne was more than happy to oblige his inner caveman. Tonight it would be with a nice lean filet mignon sauced with a mixture of Dijon mustard and Madeira wine. At Petra's suggestion, she'd elected to balance out the savory flavor of the meat with lemon and garlic green beans, rosemary cheddar biscuits, and chocolate cake.

As Suzanne chopped, whirled, and shuffled pans on the stove, the heavenly aroma of sautéing shallots permeated her kitchen. In the dining room, soft candlelight danced a medley of shadows on the walls as a Joshua Redman song played on iPod speakers set next to a recently uncorked bottle of Cabernet.

Suzanne decided that a quiet dinner with Sam was a fine way to end a long, difficult day. She didn't have any definitive answers about Hannah's killer yet, but she did feel like she'd helped nudge Doogie another step forward. At least she hoped so.

A shuffle outside the front door, punctuated by the ring of her doorbell, told her that Sam had arrived. The usual barking and mad scramble of dogs followed.

“Come in,” Suzanne called out. “Door's open.”

She turned off the heat and scraped her shallots into a bowl. Then, toenails clicking briskly against tile, throaty woofs, and Sam's friendly voice caused her to turn around and smile.

“Hey there,” he said. He was standing in her doorway, wearing faded jeans, a gray Rolling Stones T-shirt, and white sneakers. One hand rested gently on Baxter's head, the other on top of Scruff's head. “I hope I'm not totally underdressed.” He smiled. “I was late getting out of the clinic and didn't have time to stop by my apartment. This was all I had stashed in my locker.”

“Not a problem,” said Suzanne. “The
Vogue
shoot called and cancelled at the last minute, so I sent the wardrobe people home. Looks like it'll just be the two of us tonight. Oh, and the dogs.” She wiped her hands on her apron, skipped across the floor, and gave him a quick kiss.

“I hope there's more where that came from,” he said.

“Probably is,” she said.

“I found this in my car, too,” Sam said, holding out a bottle of tawny port.

“Just sitting there in your car? How convenient.”

“You said you were making chocolate cake, so my wine guy said this would be the perfect complement.”

“I'm suitably impressed,” said Suzanne. “You have a wine guy? Your own personal sommelier?”

“Well, maybe not a
real
guy, per se.” Sam grinned. “It's actually an app on my phone called
My Wine Guy
.”

“And this guy just happened to recommend tawny port? Knowing it's one of my all-time faves?”

“Guess so,” said Sam as he followed her into the kitchen. Followed, of course, by the dogs. “Man, it smells good in here.”

“It's amazing what food companies can stuff into a can these days.”

“Hah,” said Sam. “A confirmed foodie like you? I don't think you even own a can opener.”

“C'mere,” said Suzanne, crooking her finger. “I want to show you something.”

He headed for her stove, like it was a homing beacon.

“No, over here.”

Sam came closer and Suzanne grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the small box that was perched at the far end of the counter. Baxter and Scruff sat down quietly on the floor beneath the box, their eyes imploring Sam to look inside the box. Or at least show them what was in there. Since whatever it was
smelled
pretty dang interesting.

“What have you got there?” Sam tiptoed closer.

Suzanne pulled a cardboard flap aside. “Take a look.”

Sam peered down into the box at the fuzzy little ball that stared wide-eyed back at him. “It's a real live dust bunny,” he said. “I've always heard rumors . . .”

“It's a baby owl,” said Suzanne. “Isn't it cute?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” he said. “How'd you get this little guy? Is it a guy?”

“I have no idea. I found him on the ground behind the Cackleberry Club. I think he tumbled out of his nest.”

“Poor thing,” said Sam. “He looks hungry. Will he be dining with us this evening?”

“That's kind of a problem. I've been fixing him a puree of hamburger and rice, but it's not easy getting him to eat it. I was going to use one of Petra's old turkey basters, but it's too big.”

Sam thought for a minute. “I might have an idea.”

“What's that?”

But he was already out the door. “Gotta grab something from my car,” he called back.

When Sam returned he was carrying two plastic-wrapped packages.

“Eyedroppers,” he told her, opening one of the packages and showing her a row of small blue bottles. “Let's see if this works. Put some of your owl food in one, then add a little warm water and shake it up.”

“Like an owl smoothie,” she said.

Suzanne used a funnel to transfer some of her puree into one of the glass bottles. Then she added some water, shook it vigorously, and handed it to Sam. Reaching carefully into the box, he moved the eyedropper toward the little owl, but the owl cowered and crept quickly to the rear of its box.

“Poor little thing is scared,” said Suzanne. “Let me try.”

“Couldn't hurt,” said Sam.

Suzanne took the dropper and reached into the box. “It's okay, little one,” she cooed. The owl stared at her, its tiny chest heaving with panic. Suzanne didn't push it, but neither did she pull away. Finally, gradually, the little owl quieted down. She moved the dropper closer until its mouth opened. She pinched the bulb to release some food and the owl's mouth clamped around the eyedropper with an audible
click
. Slowly, Suzanne squeezed the dropper some more. Food leaked out of the owl's tiny beak, but it was eating.

“It's working,” she whispered. “He's eating.”

Sam placed his hand on her shoulder and said, “You're magic, Suzanne.”

*   *   *

D
INNER
was fantastic. At least Sam said it was. He chatted about his day, listened while Suzanne told him all about her discoveries at Dodd's Pawn Shop, and then got even more attentive when she started floating theories past him.

“You're really into this, aren't you?” he said.

“Oh yeah, we're going to figure this out. Hannah's killer is not going to go unpunished.”

“But there are so many suspects,” said Sam. “It's really baffling.”

“Ricky Wilcox is out of the picture,” said Suzanne. “I can pretty much guarantee he didn't do it.”

“What about that fireman? Dale something.”

“Darrel Fuhrman? I still want to talk to Fire Chief Finley about him. I mean, you saw him at the bar Saturday night, he's one angry guy.”

“Maybe he's just unhappy,” said Sam. “Lot of that going around these days. Tough economic times can take their toll. We see more and more people coming into the clinic just to get antidepressants.”

“Is Darrel Fuhrman on antidepressants?” Suzanne asked.

“You know I can't give out personal medical information like that.”

“Sure, you can.”

“He's not my patient, so I really don't know,” said Sam, finally.

“And then there's the gun-loving husband of that rescued woman,” said Suzanne. “Marty Wolfson.”

“Don't know anything about him, either,” said Sam.

“I think he's pretty much of a scuzzball. But the guy who's really caught my attention is Jack Venable. That business about selling Hannah's ring . . . it's just awful. Traitorous.”

“So you think Venable set the fire in order to kill Hannah,” said Sam.

“I'm leaning that way, yes.”

Sam put his hands flat on the table and said, “Doogie and his inspectors are fairly certain it was arson?”

“That's right.”

“But what if Hannah wasn't really the intended victim?”

“What do you mean?” said Suzanne.

“What if Bruce Winthrop was really the target?”

Startled, Suzanne opened her mouth, started to say something, and then hesitated. Finally, she said, “I never looked at it from
that
angle before.”

“Think about it,” said Sam.

“I will,” said Suzanne. “Because you make . . . an interesting point.”

*   *   *

A
S
wonderful as their evening had been, as creepy as their dinner-table conversation had been, Suzanne still wanted to attend the candlelight vigil tonight for Hannah Venable.

Sam drove her, one hand curled possessively around her hand, to downtown Kindred, where they parked in front of Kuyper's Hardware and then hiked over to a small plot of land that the downtown council had spiffed up with grass and flower beds. It sat kitty-corner from the burned-out County Services Building.

There were about forty or fifty people gathered there already, talking in low voices and just beginning to light their candles.

“There's Petra,” said Suzanne. “And Toni.” She tugged on Sam's hand as they threaded their way through the subdued crowd.

Petra waved when she saw them. “Glad you could make it,” she said. “You, too, Dr. Hazelet.”

“Sam,” he said. “Please, just Sam.”

“I was supposed to help Bruce Winthrop kick things off,” said Petra, “but you-know-who was late.” She fixed Toni with an accusing look. “Honey, I specifically asked you to pick me up at seven-forty-five. If I'd known you were on Pacific time I'd have said five-forty-five.”

“I wasn't
that
late,” said Toni, tugging at her jacket. She was dressed to impress in a pair of tight jeans, a black T-shirt, and a bedazzled jean jacket. She looked, Suzanne decided, like she was on her way to a snazzy hoedown.

“We're all here now,” said Suzanne, ever the peacemaker. “That's what counts.”

“And there's Kit,” said Toni. She lifted a hand. “Over here, Kit.”

Kit Kaslik eased her way through the crowd, looking youthful and pretty as ever in jeans and a camel turtleneck. But she also seemed subdued.

“Hi,” Kit said, ducking her head as she approached.

“Where's Ricky?” asked Toni. “Isn't he here?” She stood on tiptoes and looked around.

Kit's face suddenly looked tight and drawn and she edged closer to Suzanne as if for protection. “Ricky was afraid to come,” she whispered. “He was afraid to show his face.”

“You mean he thought the villagers might come after him with torches and pitchforks?” said Suzanne.

“Jeez, Suzanne,” said Sam. “You certainly have a knack for vivid description. What are you doing, writing a screenplay or something?”

But Kit just nodded sadly. “Ricky is basically terrified. He feels like he's persona non grata all over town.”

“But he's innocent,” said Toni.

“Try telling that to Sheriff Doogie,” said Kit. “Especially when he's still on the list.”

*   *   *

W
ITH
everyone's candle lit and flickering softly in the night, Petra and a few friends from her church choir kicked off the singing. They started with “Yesterday,” by the Beatles, and then segued into “You've Got a Friend,” by James Taylor. Halfway through the second song, Suzanne spotted Jack Venable in the crowd. He was thin and wiry, with a head that seemed to perpetually poke forward as if he were walking into a heavy wind. He had watery blue eyes, a fluff of reddish brown hair, and prominent cheekbones. His lips, drawn into a tight line, were what Toni always referred to as turtle lips. That is, a thin, almost nonexistent top lip.

Of course, he'd be here, Suzanne told herself. Not everyone in town knew he was a suspect. Not yet, anyway.

Suzanne continued to watch Jack Venable as a few people came up to him and hugged him or patted him on the back. The entire time, Venable's expression never changed and she wondered if Jack Venable was trying to bravely hold his emotions together or if he was hiding a terrible secret.

As one of Hannah's friends spoke briefly about how kind she was and how much she'd be missed, Suzanne noticed a young woman moving around on the fringe of the group. Dark haired with lovely, almost slanted eyes, she wore a low-cut pink sweater and tight white pants tucked into brown suede boots. She also made sure Jack Venable was never out of her sight.

Suzanne nudged Toni. “Do you know who that is?” she whispered as she nodded discreetly toward the girl.

Toni's eyes searched the crowd then fell upon the dark-haired girl. She seemed to study her for a few moments, and then whispered back. “Yeah, I think I've seen her before.” Then Toni gave Kit a nudge and they had a whispered exchange.

“What?” said Suzanne.

“Marlys Shelton,” said Toni. “That's her name.”

Suzanne reached a hand behind Toni and tapped Kit on the shoulder. “Do you think she's the young woman Jack Venable is having an affair with?” she asked in a low voice.

Kit grimaced and whispered back, “I think . . . definitely.”

Then Petra and her chorus broke into Eric Clapton's “Tears in Heaven,” their third and final song. At the last bar, as their sweet tones faded and died on the night wind, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

“Wonderful,” Toni and Kit breathed together.

“Very moving,” Sam agreed.

But Suzanne had spotted Bruce Winthrop shuttling through the crowd, and quickly hastened over to have a word with him.

“Bruce,” she said, “this must be awfully hard on you.”

Winthrop blinked back tears. “Suzanne, you have no idea. Hannah and I worked together for six years, so I feel . . .” He wiped at his eyes, clearly embarrassed by his emotions. “But this . . . this amazing gathering tonight . . . well, I'm stunned and thankful that so many people turned out.” He gazed about at the crowd that lingered. “What a blessing,” he whispered. Then he leaned forward, so no one else could hear, and said, “Have you come up with anything yet that I should know about? I know I probably came on a little strong to you before, asking for your help and all, but I trust you, Suzanne. And with so many suspects . . .” His voice suddenly choked with emotion. “I just wish this case could be solved and done with.”