Scorched Eggs (21 page)

“Curses,” chuckled Toni. “Somebody beat us to it.”

“What we need to do,” said Suzanne, wedging her casserole dish in among the others, “is get serious. Take a look around this place and see what we can see.”

“What is it we're looking for again?” asked Toni.

“I'm not sure, but maybe we'll know it when we see it.”

They stood quietly for a moment, surveying the kitchen. It was an old-fashioned place, homey and lovingly assembled. The appliances were very '70s-looking, but Hannah's décor of rosebud wallpaper, white lace curtains, stenciled cabinets, and hand-embroidered tea towels more than made up for it.

“This kitchen looks like Hannah,” Toni said, with a kind of reverence in her voice. “With the hanging copper pots and plants and things. Oh, and look at that collection of ceramic angels on the windowsill.” She walked over and touched one of the angels gently, as if she could divine some crucial information from it.

“This is heartbreaking,” Suzanne whispered. “I feel like Hannah's essence is still here, though her physical self is gone forever.”

“She's in a better place,” Toni whispered back.

They opened drawers, peered in cupboards, and peeked behind a row of cookbooks.

“Anything?” said Toni.

“Nada,” said Suzanne. “Zip, zero, zilch.”

Then Toni pulled open a door, peered down into the darkness, and sniffed. “Basement. Think we should see what's down there? A dungeon perhaps?”

“Let's check it out,” said Suzanne as they flipped on a light and descended the stairs.

Suzanne wasn't sure what they would find down there, but the furniture, wood-paneled walls, and distinctly masculine vibe weren't what she'd expected.

“Gack,” said Toni, expressing her distaste as she looked around. “It's a man cave. Look at this place, all tricked out with a leather sofa, big-screen TV, and foosball table.”

“And a bar,” said Suzanne. “With lighted beer signs and beer steins, and bottles of scotch and tequila up the wazoo. Why do some guys feel the compulsion to create their own saloon?”

“My guess is they're trying to reclaim their lost youth,” said Toni. “Get back into the mind-set of the good old frat-rat, kegger days.” She curled a lip. “Junior would probably go ape over this place.” The disgust was all too evident in her voice. “Only he'd probably have installed a stripper pole.”

“Not for you, I hope!” said Suzanne, horrified.

“Good heavens, no,” said Toni. “I'm not that kind of girl.” She lifted a shoulder. “Although, back in the day . . .”

“C'mon, let's go back upstairs. There's nothing here.”

Back in the kitchen, they looked around again. Baskets hung on the walls along with muffin tins and a couple of framed needlepoints.

“I'm afraid we might have struck out,” said Suzanne. She was looking for something—anything—that would point to Jack Venable as either an angry husband or a killer with a motive.

Toni touched her hand to the knob of another door and tentatively pushed it open. She gave a low whistle. “Hey, take a look at this.”

“What?” said Suzanne.

Toni eased the door open a little more. “Look at this little room. I think it must have been Hannah's home office. It's way too cute for Jack's taste.”

Suzanne studied the room. It was windowless, cozy, and small, about ten feet by twelve feet. The wallpaper was a pale pink morning glory pattern, there was a small desk, a narrow bookcase, and next to it an old-fashioned wooden stand with a '70s-era Singer sewing machine on top.

“This must have functioned as her sewing room, too,” said Suzanne.

“Hannah liked to sew?” said Toni.

“She was a quilter. That's how she and Petra first met.”

They eased their way in and poked around.

“Look at this,” said Toni, pointing to several little jars of colored paint. “She was a crafter, too. I bet she hand-painted some of those angels in the kitchen.” She sniffled. “Kind of breaks my heart thinking about it.”

But Suzanne had wasted no time in pulling open Hannah's desk drawers and riffling through them.

“Suzanne!” said Toni, a little taken aback. “Do you think we should really be rummaging through her desk? There might be personal papers in there.”

“That's exactly what I'm hoping for,” said Suzanne. She dug past bank statements, a savings and loan passbook, and a few letters, until her fingers touched a brown leather-bound book. She pulled the book out and looked at it.

“Whatcha got?” asked Toni.

“I think Hannah kept a diary,” said Suzanne.

“Holy smokes, are we gonna read it?”

“We came this far, didn't we?”

Toni glanced around, a little wild-eyed. “We can't do it here. Somebody might come in and catch us. So . . . we have to smuggle it out.”

“I'll stick it in my purse,” said Suzanne. But when she opened her hobo bag the diary wouldn't quite fit.

“I know,” said Toni, “I'll stick it down the front of my pants. It'll just look like I ate too much. I'm kind of like that anyway. If I gobble a couple of burgers my stomach pops out. Like a snake that swallowed a gopher.”

Suzanne shoved the diary into Toni's hands. “Do it,” she said. Then, “Let's get out of here!”

They made it through the dining room without being accosted or stopped by anyone, then through the living room. When they hit the front porch Toni was looking decidedly gleeful.

“What are you smiling about?” Suzanne asked. “We didn't exactly stage a heist at the National Archives.”

“It's not that. I think one of the women sitting in the living room was that waitress from Hoobly's,” Toni tittered. “You know . . . Marlys whatever.”

Suzanne glanced back over her shoulder. “The one Jack's having an affair with? Are you sure about that?”

Toni nodded so rapidly she looked like a bobblehead doll. “Oh yeah. I'd recognize those blue hair extensions anywhere!”

*   *   *

I
N
the darkness and relative safety of her car, Suzanne paged through the diary.

“Is it Hannah's?” Toni asked.

“It most certainly is.”

“Try to find the most recent entry,” Toni urged. “Maybe that'll give us something to go on, some kind of clue.”

Suzanne continued to page through the diary. Then she stopped, scanned a couple of pages, and said, “Oh dear Lord.”

“What?” said Toni. “
What?
”

“Listen to this,” said Suzanne. “And this is in Hannah's own handwriting. ‘I don't know how long we can keep up this charade, Jack and I. He is so unhappy and uncaring, and nothing I say to him seems to get through.'”

“Whoa,” said Toni. “What else?”

“She writes a lot more about being unhappy. About feeling unable to connect with Jack.” Her eyes met Toni's. “This makes me so sad. That Hannah was this unhappy. She . . . she should have just left the bum. I would have.”

“Like I left Junior,” said Toni. She looked thoughtful. “Still . . . this diary's not exactly incriminating evidence. A lot of couples live their lives that way, just going through the motions. Look at me and Junior with our love-hate relationship.”

Suzanne continued to page through the diary. She studied her most recent entry, blinked, and looked at it again as something seemed to click inside her brain.

Toni, sensing Suzanne had discovered something, said, “Now what?”

Suzanne cleared her throat and said, “There's an entry here that says, and I quote, ‘Things have now gotten to the point where I definitely must talk to Chuck Hofferman.'”

“Huh?” said Toni, looking puzzled. “Who's he?”

“The county attorney.”

“You think she was going to ask for his advice about a divorce?” said Toni.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“That's it?” said Toni. “That's all Hannah wrote? There's nothing else, nothing that expounds upon what she was thinking?”

Suzanne closed the book with a snap. “That's where it ends.”

“What do you think was nagging at Hannah?” said Toni. “Why did she want to talk to this guy Hofferman? Do you think it was about Jack?”

Suzanne could only shake her head.

“
Y
OU
two girls are plumb crazy, you know that?” said Petra.

It was Thursday morning, Egg in a Biscuit Day at the Cackleberry Club. And Petra wore a look of supreme disapproval on her broad and usually kindhearted face.

“What are you talking about?” said Suzanne, feeling a little blip of uncertainty bubble up within her. Petra hardly ever got mad, but when she did—
kaboom!
It was like World War III had launched.

“Aw,” said Toni, looking sheepish. “I told her about our little escapade last night. I fessed up about finding Hannah's diary.”

“Now why would you go and do something like that?” Suzanne demanded. “When we do something really stupid and a little outside the law, why can't you keep your mouth shut like any normal criminal would?”

“Because I pried it out of her,” said Petra. “Toni came skulking in this morning with such a guilty look on her face, I just knew she'd been up to no good. And that you were probably involved, too.”

“Thanks so much for your vote of confidence,” said Suzanne.

Petra shook her head, still muttering to herself. “And I suppose you forgot to bring along my sprigs of fresh rosemary, too. So I can bake a couple pans of rosemary cheese rolls.”

“I brought the herbs,” said Suzanne, setting a small basket on the counter. “I had to get up at the crack of dawn and fight off marauding insects, but I brought them.”

“Good for you,” said Petra, finally cracking a semblance of a smile. “At least
something's
going as planned.”

“You're just cranky because you've committed to baking your pies today,” said Toni.

“You're baking pies?” said Suzanne. “So you're for sure going to enter the fair?”

“Yes,” said Petra. “And the entry forms are about driving me crazy. The pies I can manage, but the forms . . .” She grabbed a spatula and flipped over a dozen strips of turkey bacon that were sizzling in her frying pan.

“Let me handle the forms for you,” Suzanne volunteered. “I don't mind being a paper geek. Besides, I have my own rodeo entry to do.”

Petra looked up from the stove. “Really?”

“Sure, no problem,” said Suzanne.

“You see?” said Toni. “No problem. Everything's simpatico.”

Petra grabbed the basket of herbs. “You're not getting off that easy,” she said. But a smile played at her lips.

Suzanne and Toni got busy in the café, delivering breakfasts, pouring refills on coffee, brewing a pot of Darjeeling tea.

“Do you think Doogie's gonna drop by today?” Toni asked as she twirled past Suzanne, on her way to grabbing a sticky roll.

“Probably.”

“Are you going to tell him about the diary?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“I heard that,” Petra called from the other side of the pass-through.

“Okay,” Suzanne called back. “I probably am.”

*   *   *

T
WENTY
minutes later, with all of their customers munching away, Suzanne and Toni took their own quick coffee break.

Toni bit into a chocolate donut and, with a mischievous look on her face, said, “Do you think we should tell Petra about the woman we saw at Jack Venable's house last night?”

Petra, who'd been carefully rolling out her piecrust dough, glanced up, a look of intense curiosity on her face.

“Ah, now she's interested,” observed Toni. “As opposed to ticked off.”

Petra waggled her fingers. “Who was Jack Venable snuggled up with?”

“Not exactly snuggling,” said Suzanne.

“Not yet,” said Toni. “Since there were relatives hanging around. And a few neighbors.”

“Okay, now you
have
to tell me,” said Petra. “Was it that Marlys person?”

Toni nodded. “Yup.”

“Why am I not surprised?” said Petra.

*   *   *

A
few minutes later, Suzanne went to work on the chalkboard. Today's luncheon specials were a roast chicken Reuben, citrus salad, pita pizza, and a chicken meatball sub sandwich. And since Petra was busy baking pies to enter in the fair, she was offering just one dessert today, something called Cake in a Mug.

When Toni had quizzed her about this, Petra just smiled and said, “Wait and see.” So Suzanne guessed they'd all have to wait and see, even though Petra had told her the single-serving cake was available in chocolate, red velvet, and lemon.

Toni stood behind the counter, slicing a hunk of white cheddar cheese, assembling a cheese and bologna sandwich for a take-out order. When she had it wrapped, bagged, and tagged, she sauntered over to Suzanne and said, “There's a kind of parade down Main Street tonight in honor of the opening of the Logan County Fair. Are you going?”

“Sam mentioned something about it,” said Suzanne. “So, yes. Probably.” She glanced out the window toward the front parking lot and said, “Doogie just pulled in. He's early.”

“Depends if he's here for breakfast or lunch,” said Toni.

Turns out Doogie had really just popped in for coffee and a donut. And to grumble about Gene Gandle's article in today's
Bugle.

“Did you see Gandle's story?” Doogie asked, shifting his bulk on the stool at the counter.

Suzanne shook her head. “Haven't read it yet. Is there a problem?” She figured there had to be since he was favoring her with a grumpy face.

Doogie did a quick glance over his shoulder. “It sure ain't complimentary to law enforcement, I can tell you that.”

“Gene Gandle's a putz,” said Suzanne. “And everybody in town knows it. I think the only reason Laura Benchley keeps him on at the paper is because he handles ad sales, too. I know he keeps pestering me with his deals, offering a quarter page for the price of an eighth page.” She poured Doogie a steaming mug of coffee and placed two donuts on his plate, the kind he liked best, chocolate donuts with multicolored jimmies all over them.

Doogie snatched one up and took a bite, causing a mini flotilla of jimmies to course down the front of his shirt. “All those questions you asked Chief Finley yesterday, you almost gave the old fart a brain aneurysm.”

“That's too bad,” said Suzanne. “All I wanted were a couple of simple, straight-ahead answers. Which he could have easily provided, without acting like he was divulging classified CIA information.”

“Sometimes pulling an answer out of Finley is like pulling taffy,” Doogie chuckled.

“What's your take on the fire at the vet's office? Do you think it was just kids up to no good?”

Doogie took a long sip of coffee as he formulated his answer. Then he said, “I do think it might be connected to the fire last Friday. I think a lot of things are connected. But I'm still a little stumped as to how to pull all the pieces together.” He took another sip of coffee and looked up at Suzanne. He seemed a little anxious, as if he was ready to divulge a nugget of important information.

“What?” she said.

“I discovered something a little strange,” said Doogie. He reached into a glass bowl of toothpicks, grabbed one, and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.

Suzanne put her elbows on the counter and leaned forward, the better to be complicit.

“Chuck Hofferman,” said Doogie. “You know him, the county attorney?”

“Yes,” Suzanne said with a start. “He's a real fan of Petra's chicken chili.”
And Hannah mentioned him in her diary!

“Well Chuck was telling me that Hannah had scheduled a meeting with him for Monday morning.”

“This being the Monday after the fire.” Suzanne's heart was beating faster now.

“Correct.”

Suzanne held up a hand. Now she knew she had to reveal her information. “Stop right there,” she said.

“What?” said Doogie, looking puzzled.

“I also found out that Hannah was going to talk to him.”

Doogie narrowed his eyes. “How would you know something like that? Did Hannah Venable mention something about a meeting to you or one of your cohorts?”

“She did in a manner of speaking.” Suzanne gulped a deep breath and said, “Give me a minute.” She ducked into the kitchen, grabbed the diary, and carried it out to Doogie.

When she set it on the counter in front of him, he said, “What the Sam Hill is this? Are you trying to nag me into joining your book of the month club again? I told you I don't read thrillers, only westerns. I'm a cowboy hat and sagebrush kind of guy.”

“It's Hannah's diary,” Suzanne told him. “That's how I knew she was planning to meet with Hofferman.”

Doogie set a new land speed record for going from cranky to utterly astonished. “Where'd you get this?” he demanded as his hands closed around it.

“From her house last night.”

“You
stole
it?”

“Nothing quite that dramatic,” said Suzanne, flinching inwardly at her little white lie. “Toni and I took a casserole over and . . . uh . . . we kind of stumbled upon it. Appropriated it you might say. The critical thing is, Hannah actually wrote in her diary about needing to meet with Hofferman. It's one of the last entries. In fact, it's
the
last entry.”

Doogie tapped the book with a stubby index finger. “Does she say what the meeting was supposed to be about?”

Suzanne shook her head. “No. Did Hofferman know what the meeting was all about?”

“He had no idea,” said Doogie. “Hofferman just told me that Hannah called him a few days before the fire and said she had something important to discuss.”

“I wonder what it was?” said Suzanne. And then, “Do you think that's the reason someone set her building on fire? That Hannah was privy to some sort of secret? She had some damaging information on someone?”

Doogie switched his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “That's
exactly
what I think.”

*   *   *

J
UST
as Suzanne was setting plates of meatball subs in front of two farmers dressed in bib overalls, Sam walked in. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looked around, and caught her eye. When she held up a finger, indicating she'd be with him in one second, Sam seated himself at the small table by the window and spread open his newspaper.

A few minutes later, as quick as was humanly possible, Suzanne hastened over to greet him.

“You should have told me you were coming in for lunch today,” she said, sounding both flustered and excited. “I would have had something special waiting for you.”

Sam winked at her. “I do have something special waiting for me. You.”

“Dr. Hazelet, your table manners are awfully flirtatious,” she scolded. But inwardly she was pleased. Thrilled, really.

“You ought to see my bedside manner,” he said. “Oh, excuse me, you have.”

Suzanne blushed fiercely and gave him a playful shoulder punch.
Please don't let anyone overhear this conversation
, she thought to herself.
Especially those two farmers over there, because then I will never, ever hear the end of it.

“So what's good?” Sam asked. “I've got, like, thirty minutes, then I'm off to the hospital to attend a very boring committee meeting.”

“I'll ask Petra to whip something up. Make it a surprise.”

“That'd be great,” said Sam.

*   *   *

“
P
ETRA
!”
Suzanne cried once she was safely in the kitchen. “Sam's here!”

“That's nice,” said Petra. She was busy cutting thin strips of pastry to top her rhubarb pie.

“What can we serve him that's really special?”

Petra straightened up and gazed at her. “Seems to me you're always fixing something special for that guy. A few nights ago it was filet mignon, last week it was veal Prince Orloff. I even gave you my aunt Edith's secret recipe for wine and morel sauce.”

“Your point being?” said Suzanne.

“If you keep feeding him like he's dining out at the Four Seasons every night, then that's what he'll come to expect.”

“You're training him,” said Toni. “Like Pavlov's dog.”

“Exactly,” Petra laughed. “He'll come to expect a nifty combination of Martha Stewart and Boom Boom LaRue.”

Suzanne could see some logic in this. She
had
been indulging Sam of late, with food, wine, appetizers, pancakes, and homemade fudge. “So you're saying I should tone it down a little. Hot dogs and beans one night, grilled cheese sandwiches another time. Make my meals a little more . . . casual.”

“More Midwestern,” said Toni. “Throw in a casserole or two. Wink wink.”

“Toni's right,” laughed Petra. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced around the kitchen. “Tell you what, how about I fix the love of your life a nice bacon and egg panini? You think that would slide down okay?”

“That would be superlative!” said Suzanne.

“I guess I'm just a pushover for romance and love,” said Petra. Her eyes crinkled merrily. “Speaking of which, is there anything I should know about? Any foreseeable change of marital status on the horizon?”

“You'll know when I know,” said Suzanne.

“Not the answer I was hoping for,” said Petra, plopping a fat pat of butter in her sauté pan.

Me neither
, thought Suzanne.

*   *   *

W
HEN
Suzanne delivered Sam's panini to his table, he whistled and said, “Wow, you made this?”

“It's basically Petra's recipe,” said Suzanne. “But I helped.”

“You're going to spoil me. You
are
spoiling me.”

Good. Well, maybe not so good. Because I probably am.

Sam's hand thumped against the newspaper. “Did you get a chance to read the article Gene Gandle wrote about the County Services fire and the sheriff's ongoing investigation?”