Scorched Eggs (18 page)

She hung the dress on the back of the closet door, shucked out of her clothes, and brushed her teeth. Not five minutes later, Suzanne drifted off to sleep, dreaming of ballerinas. Ballerinas in pink toe shoes who danced across a bed of hot coals while flames roared in the background.

E
LEVEN
o'clock at night, across town. The arsonist looked out his window at the lopsided yellow moon hanging low in the sky and the darkened houses surrounding him. And smiled a drunken smile. He'd fixed himself another drink and flipped on CNN, where a couple of talking heads argued back and forth about instability in the Middle East.

He was vaguely interested. On the other hand, he was a little bit drunk and it was hard not to feel gleeful and self-satisfied. Okay, let's be totally honest here, he was feeling more than a little smug.

I'm too smart for them
, he told himself as he dropped heavily into his leather Barcalounger.
Too smart for all of them.
They'll never
catch me in a million years, because small-town people have small-town minds.

He nuzzled his scotch and closed his eyes momentarily, convinced a thousand times over that he was forever safe.

On the other side of town, Suzanne stirred in her sleep and, unconsciously, ground her teeth as she dreamt of sweet revenge.

S
UZANNE
,
Toni, and Petra, each turned out in black, sat like a trio of somber crows at Hannah's funeral.

It was Wednesday morning at Hope Church and there was standing room only. It seemed like the whole of Kindred had turned out to pay their respects and bid Hannah a final farewell. The choir was warbling sadly in the choir loft overhead, while tiny little Agnes Bennet pumped away at the enormous pipe organ, just as she had at weddings, funerals, and Sunday meetings for the last forty-five years.

Suzanne recognized the song; it was Paul Simon's “Homeward Bound.” The sentiment always made her feel sad and she could see that Petra was sad, too. The poor dear was oozing tears and dabbing at her nose with a lace hankie. Toni, on the other hand, was craning her neck around, inquisitive as always, eyes roving about, studying the crowd.

Suzanne decided to follow her lead. Leaning sideways, almost out into the center aisle, she tried to see what was happening at the front of the church. Ah, there he was. Jack Venable. Sitting in the very first pew, looking sober and subdued, surrounded by a sprinkling of people that all had his same sharp nose. Relatives, probably.

“Look,” Petra whispered. She'd been watching carefully even as she mumbled her quiet prayers. “Hannah's sister, Joyce, is sitting on the
other
side of the church.”

Then Toni had to slip in her two cents and nail it. “I wonder if Jack Venable's little chickie-poo is here?”

Petra sniffled. “I don't know. Maybe he wasn't having an affair after all. Maybe the man is just . . . lost.”

Suzanne and Toni glanced quickly at each other, a move that wasn't lost on Petra.

“What?” she said.

“He was,” said Suzanne.

“Is,” said Toni.

“Really?” said Petra.

Suzanne and Toni both nodded.

“Then what I'd really like to do,” whispered Petra, “is sit down and
talk
to him. Shake the cold, hard truth out of him.”

Wouldn't we all?
Suzanne thought.

The church's double doors swung open with a loud
clunk
as George Draper, the town's leading (and only) funeral director, entered and then marched slowly down the center aisle. He was tall and storklike with a sad countenance, as though
he
was one of the bereaved parties. Draper was wearing one of his typical sedate black funeral suits, though Suzanne had once seen him at a Jaycees' event, wearing the same suit and dancing a wild merengue.

Draper stopped, turned, and made a subtle hand gesture. Then the men carrying the casket entered the church and followed slowly down the aisle behind him. Topped with a spray of white roses and gladiolas, the casket was a creamy off-white that reminded Suzanne of the ivory keys on an old piano.

Sheriff Doogie was one of the pallbearers; so was Mayor Mobley. They struggled their way down the aisle, eyes bulging, suits almost bursting at the seams from their effort. Suzanne wondered if the current generation might be getting a little old for this sort of thing. Maybe let some younger fellows do the heavy lifting, so to speak.

Then Reverend Strait came out to stand at the altar, looking dapper and handsome with his slicked-back white hair, regal bearing, and dark suit.

There were prayers, testimonials, more prayers, and songs. Everyone who spoke referred to the funeral as a celebration of Hannah's life. But Suzanne knew it was really all about mourning her death. Having buried Walter not that long ago, she understood the harsh truth. That death is an inevitable part of life. You can celebrate death, rail against it, or fear it. But sooner or later, death was going to come calling for everyone.

Petra sobbed openly as the final hymn, Sarah McLachlan's “I Will Remember You,” rang through the church. Toni put an arm around her, while Suzanne took her hand and squeezed it.

And then the service was over. Everyone hurried out of the church, looking sad-eyed but a little anxious to resume their everyday lives. Because that's what you did. You simply got on with things.

“We're heading right back to the Cackleberry Club,” Toni told Suzanne out on the front steps. “Petra's positive we've got a line waiting at the door.”

Suzanne glanced around. “Some of these folks will turn up there, I suspect.”

“I think so, too,” said Petra, sniffling. “You coming with us?”

Suzanne thought for a moment. “In a little while. I've got a couple of things I need to take care of first.” She'd just noticed Gene Gandle standing across the street, snapping pictures like crazy. The nerve of him.

As Suzanne pushed her way through the crowd, she was suddenly buttonholed by Bruce Winthrop.

“Suzanne,” Winthrop said. He looked sorrowful but well turned out in a charcoal gray suit. “You were right. I met with Sheriff Doogie and told him about the encounter I had with Ricky Wilcox.”

“I think that's smart,” said Suzanne. “Doogie needs all the information he can get. Then he can analyze it, ask the tough questions, and hopefully move forward.”

“We can only hope,” said Winthrop. He ducked his head and added, “And thank you for all your help.”

“Thanks for your faith in me, Bruce, but I haven't really done that much.”

Winthrop gazed at her, his eyes filled with kindness and concern. “Ah, whether you know it or not, Suzanne, you serve as a kind of sounding board for Sheriff Doogie. You're his moral compass. He trusts you and I know he always appreciates your input.”

“Really? You think so?” Suzanne knew that Doogie would sooner spit a rat than acknowledge her help.

Winthrop looked sideways and said, “Speak of the devil . . .”

They both glanced across the street where Doogie was striding briskly toward his cruiser. He was parked directly across one of the neighbor's driveways, blocking it completely. But nobody had come out to yell at him or tell him to move his car. Or even leave a nasty note.

Suzanne put a hand on Winthrop's forearm. “Excuse me. I want to have a word with Doogie.”

Winthrop nodded as Suzanne dashed across the street.

“Doogie,” she called, holding up a hand.

Doogie saw her but chose to ignore her. He unlocked the door to his cruiser and yanked it open.

Suzanne caught up to him just as he'd settled his bulk into the driver's seat and turned over his engine.

Doogie looked up at her and said, “Ah jeez, and I was this close to a clean getaway.”

“I'm sorry,” said Suzanne. “I know this has been a rough day for you. For all of us, really.”

Doogie's radio suddenly burped. He grabbed the handset and said, “What?” There was a burst of static and a few garbled words. “Write him a ticket, for cripes' sake,” he snarled. “You know what to do.” He hung up his radio and turned back to Suzanne. “Now what?”

“I just happened to be at the Prairie Star Casino last night.”

Doogie's wooden stare morphed into one of suspicion. “Wait a minute, run that by me again. You just
happened
to be at the casino last night?” He clenched his jaw as if fighting for control. “Please don't tell me this sudden gambling foray of yours had something to do with the casino chip you turned over to me yesterday afternoon.”

“It was related to the casino chip, yes,” Suzanne admitted.

Doogie exploded. “Gosh dang it, Suzanne! Didn't I tell you to leave the investigating to me?”

“Believe me,” said Suzanne. “You're going to want to hear this.” She saw the fury in his eyes, found it unnerving, and stumbled with her words. “The thing is, I . . . well, we . . . Toni was with me . . . we saw Darrel Fuhrman playing blackjack there.”

“Playing blackjack,” Doogie repeated.

“That's right.”

“You've got to learn to mind your own business, Suzanne. Leave the investigating to the professionals.”

Now it was Suzanne's turn to push back. “Wait a minute, bucko. You're the one who
told
me about Fuhrman. You're the one who let the cat out of the bag!”

Doogie's face turned pink, then seemed to bloom bright red. “Well, let's just stuff that pussycat back in the sack for now, okay?” And with that he hit the accelerator, and rocketed away.

“You're welcome,” Suzanne called after him. “Glad you can use the new information.”

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
was headed for the Cackleberry Club when she suddenly hooked a right, sped down Catawba Parkway, and caught up with the tail end of the slow-moving funeral cortege. She put her lights on and followed the last car in the procession up the bumpy, twisted road to Memorial Cemetery.

It wasn't Suzanne's idea of a bucolic resting place. For one thing, the cemetery always looked old and decrepit. There were dozens of ancient, half-felled trees hanging over rows of rounded stone tablets that had been so battered and bruised by the elements that they reminded her of rotted teeth. A kneeling stone angel, its right wing broken off and its sorrowful face pitted with age, added to the overall spookiness of the place.

Pulling her car off the road and onto the grass, Suzanne climbed out and watched the graveside services from a safe distance. Then, when the final prayers had been uttered, when all the Venable relatives had scattered, she ambled over to Jack, who was left standing there alone.

He was staring fixedly at Hannah's coffin, jaw tensed, as if he was grinding his teeth. He didn't seem to be aware of Suzanne's presence next to him until she said, “Jack.”

Venable jumped as if a banshee had just materialized from the nearby woods and dropped a cold hand on his shoulder.

“What? Jeez!” he cried, startled as he clapped a hand to his heart. “I didn't see you there, Suzanne. Wow, you scared the crap out of me.” He shook his head, still looking nervous and unsettled. Then he remembered his manners. “Thank you for coming to Hannah's funeral . . . and to the graveside service.”

“I came out of respect to Hannah,” said Suzanne. “And because I was curious as to how you're holding up.”

“How do you
think
I'm holding up?” he rasped.

“Why don't you tell me?” said Suzanne.

“You still believe that I killed her, don't you? Set fire to that building so she'd be out of my life.”

“You not only sound angry, you make it sound as if you had it all neatly planned out.”

Venable hunched his shoulders as if to ward off a blow. “No. Of course I didn't! Because I didn't
do
anything.” His almost nonexistent upper lip made an appearance and curled outward. “You've been putting a nasty bug in Sheriff Doogie's ear, haven't you? Or maybe he put a bug in your ear. I understand the two of you are thick as thieves.”

“And yet you sold Hannah's ring,” Suzanne said softly.

“I told you I made a mistake,” said Venable. “A terrible mistake.” He looked like he wanted to say more; instead he staggered across the grass, placed both hands on Hannah's coffin, and sank to his knees.

“I'm sorry,” he sobbed. “I'm so sorry.”

Suzanne watched Jack Venable express his sorrow without a single touch of emotion on her part. She decided that Venable was either extremely grief-stricken or a very accomplished actor.

In any case, she left him there, his knees pressed into the freshly turned earth, weeping uncontrollably, possibly trying to reconcile his own past actions.

*   *   *

“
W
HERE
did you run off to?” Petra asked as Suzanne slid in the back door, her trusty cardboard box in hand. “Oh, and I see you brought your little owl along.”

“Wherever I go, he goes,” said Suzanne. “We're a team.”

“And where did you go?” asked Toni. She was standing at the butcher-block table, deftly slicing a stick of butter into individual little pats.

“Cemetery,” said Suzanne. She set her box down, grabbed a clean apron off a peg, and draped it around her neck. There were a dozen cars parked out front and she was anxious to pitch in and help.

“I expect you were taking one more run at Jack Venable?” said Petra. She was standing at the stove, stirring a pan of golden, caramelized sauce. When it was to her liking, she dumped in a dozen precooked breakfast sausages and stirred it all up together.

“Yes, I tried to get in one last wheedle,” said Suzanne. “And, pray tell, what is it you're making there?”

“Sweet and spicy glazed sausages,” said Petra. “It's just a quick trick to get things moving.”

“You should have seen her make that sauce,” said Toni. “Like alchemy. She mixed hot and sweet mustard with a jar of orange marmalade.”

“Sounds wonderful,” said Suzanne. “So that's our today's special?”

“That and baked apple pancakes,” said Petra. “Along with scrambled eggs, corn muffins, tomato basil soup, and crab salad, which you can either have as a sandwich or tucked inside a tulip tomato. We're serving a single menu today, a sort of brunch menu, seeing as how we got such a late start.”

“Works for me,” said Suzanne.

The door between the kitchen and café opened quietly and Kit slid in. “I delivered that order to table six like you asked,” she told Petra.

“Thank you, dear,” said Petra. “Now if you could run into the cooler and grab me another dozen eggs?”

“Sure thing,” said Kit, but she sounded tired and listless. Not her usual perky self.

Suzanne caught Kit's arm as she went by. “How are you doing?” she asked. “How's Ricky doing?”

“I'm okay, I guess,” said Kit. “Ricky's shaking in his boots.”

Petra turned and frowned. “Now what?”

“Doogie wants to question him again,” said Kit. “Something about an argument over pesticide?”

“Pesticide?” said Toni. “What's that about?”