Scorched Eggs (24 page)

As the first- and second-place winners were called, they galloped jubilantly past Suzanne. She clapped good-naturedly. This had been an exercise in fun, she told herself. A personal challenge to see if she and her horse really could compete. But when number twenty-three, her number, crackled across the loudspeaker, she practically froze.

“That's you, ma'am,” said a skinny cowboy standing next to her. “Looks like you won third place.”

“I did?” Suzanne was stunned.

“Go get your ribbon,” urged the cowboy. “Here, you need a leg up?”

She placed the toe of her boot in his interlaced fingers and sprang onto Mocha's back. “Thanks.”

Suzanne rode into the ring feeling as if she were living a dream. Accepting a white ribbon from the judge, she smiled, shook hands, and posed with the first- and second-place winners for a quick promotional photograph.

Amazing.

As Suzanne rode out of the ring, head in the clouds, still not believing her good fortune, she heard a voice calling her name. It was Junior. She looked around and found him in the crowd. He was dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, a Pennzoil trucker cap, and wore a silver belt buckle that was either an insect or a flower, depending on how you looked at it.

“Jeez Louise, Suzanne,” cried Junior. He put both hands on top of his head as if his brains were about to bounce loose. “You won! You did it!”

“Third place,” she said, secretly pleased that she'd done so well.

“Lemme see your ribbon.”

Suzanne dismounted and held up her white ribbon, letting it flutter in the breeze.

“You're a genuine rodeo queen, you know that?” said Junior. “You oughta take your horse to the State Fair.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” said Suzanne.

“Oh, it ain't far,” said Junior. “Maybe sixty miles, tops.”

“No, I meant . . .” Suzanne chuckled. “What brings you to the fair, Junior?”

“I been in the Merchandise Mart, helping sell those gamma ray hats.”

“Before you go back to that, Junior, would you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Suzy-Q. Anything you want.”

“Hang on to Mocha for about ten minutes?”

“You mean I should just stand here and talk to him or can I walk him around?”

“Walk him around. In fact, that's a great idea, he'll stay nice and calm that way.”

“Yeah, give him something to do,” said Junior. “Where you off to?”

“I want to check the Home Arts Building and see how Petra did. See if she won any ribbons for her pies or banana bread.”

“Bet she did,” said Junior. “That lady can bake up a storm.”

“I just remembered,” said Suzanne, handing over the reins to Junior. “You entered your craft beer. How did the judging go on that?”

Junior grimaced. “Aw, there were a few minor problems. Seems the judges didn't take a liking to my beer.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Suzanne. “I know you had high hopes.”

“There's always next year,” said Junior. “I'm a natural-born optometrist.”

“Optimist,” said Suzanne.

Junior nodded sagely. “That, too.”

Suzanne held up her hand as she stepped away. “I'll be back in ten minutes, fifteen at the most.”

*   *   *

T
URNS
out Petra had won a ribbon. In fact she won three ribbons. A purple grand prize ribbon for her rhubarb pie, a blue ribbon for her cherry pie, and a red ribbon for her banana bread. So a full sweep for the Cackleberry Club!

Suzanne wanted to grab the ribbons and take them home to Petra, but she knew they had to remain in place until late Sunday. That way everyone could admire her baked goods and know that she had won.

“Suzanne,” said a friendly voice.

Suzanne turned to find Mark Binger, the local game warden, smiling at her. He was tall and thin with salt-and-pepper hair and a handlebar mustache drooped over a friendly smile.

“Mark,” she said. “You're the perfect person to run into.”

“I'm happy to hear that,” Binger said. He was wearing olive drab slacks and a light green shirt with a game warden patch on it. He gestured at his outfit and said, “I'm going to give a talk in a few minutes. About pheasants and other game birds.”

“About hunting them?” she asked.

“No, no, about preserving habitat,” said Binger. “Trying to get folks to stop mowing their fields or ditches too clean. Leave some tall marsh grasses for the birds to nest in.”

“I wonder,” said Suzanne, “do you know anything about owls?”

Binger nodded. “Some.”

“I found a baby owlet. Poor thing tumbled out of his nest, from a tree right behind the Cackleberry Club.”

“And you've been caring for it,” said Binger.

“Yes. But I don't want to,” said Suzanne.

“Best thing to do, is put it back in the nest. Nine times out of ten that'll do the trick.”

“If the mother owl rejects it, what then?”

“Worst-case scenario,” said Binger, “is you'll have to hand-feed it before it can be released into the wild.” He smiled. “Just mash up some crickets or mice.”

“Crickets I can manage.”

“Say,” said Binger, shuffling a little closer. “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

“You know, Mark,” said Suzanne. “I'm seeing someone right now.” Then she hastily wondered, was that what it was?
Seeing
someone? Is that what she had going with Sam? Because that handy-dandy little catchphrase sounded about as exciting as a mashed potato sandwich.

“Well, if circumstances should ever change,” said Binger, looking a little disappointed, “you know where to find me. Out in the marsh grass.”

Suzanne was on her way back to the horse paddock when she heard a loud honking noise and a bunch of high-pitched laughter. She glanced around and saw a contingent of clowns running through the crowd. She ducked behind a hot dog stand and peered out at them, trying to see if her aggressor clown from last night was among them. But she didn't see him. No yellow-and-orange-striped costume and red fright wig.

Fright wig.
She'd always wondered why they called it that. Now she knew.

P
ETRA
was thrilled beyond belief. At Suzanne's third-place ribbon and especially by the news that she'd won a rainbow of ribbons.

“And here I thought Edna Stang would win grand prize in baking,” she crowed. “She's always so snooty about her pecan pie. Always going on about how you have to use special Georgia pecans and cane sugar.”

“You use cane sugar,” Suzanne pointed out.

“Well, sure,” said Petra. “I use it because it's the best, but I don't get all snooty about it.”

Suzanne had rushed home to shower and change, and now she (and her baby owl) were back at the Cackleberry Club. It was late afternoon and their dinner theater guests would probably start arriving in an hour or so.

“What's going on?” Suzanne asked. “What can I do?”

“For one thing, you could go eyeball things in the café,” said Petra. “Toni, Kit, and Ricky have been busy setting tables and arranging things, but who knows how it'll all turn out?”

“How do you want it to turn out?”

“Somewhere between a state dinner at the White House and Chicken Pickin' Tuesday at a local barbecue joint.”

“We should be able to manage that,” said Suzanne.

But when she poked her head into the café, Suzanne was pleasantly surprised. White linen tablecloths camouflaged wooden tables, glassware sparkled, polished silverware gleamed. And when she quizzed Toni and company about the gorgeous floral bouquets, it turned out that Ricky had driven over to Jessup to buy bunches of roses, carnations, and baby's breath at a super discount price from a floral wholesaler that he was friendly with.

“This all looks gorgeous,” Suzanne told them. “In fact, the whole room is practically glowing.”

“Thank you,” said Toni. “And I understand big-time congratulations are in order.”

Suzanne grinned. “Who told you?”

“Junior,” said Toni. “He was all whooped up over your third-place ribbon.” She glanced over her shoulder and gave a slightly downturned expression. “In fact, he's here right now. Sitting in the office, playing games on the computer. Kind of hiding out.”

“Hiding out from what?” asked Suzanne.

Toni, Kit, and Ricky all exchanged glances. Smirks, really.

“Uh-oh, tell me what happened,” said Suzanne.

“Junior's Hubba Bubba beer?” said Toni. “It was a total disaster.”

“Apparently his beer made the judges sick,” said Ricky. “I guess two of them even tossed their cookies.”

“That's terrible,” said Suzanne. She almost giggled, but didn't.

“So if Junior offers you a brewski,” said Kit, “run the other way.”

“Suzanne,” said Ricky, “I put my ladder out back just like you asked. Leaned it right up against that big oak tree.”

“Thanks,” said Suzanne. Once the dinner theater was under way, she'd run out and try to put the owlet back in his nest. “Try” being the operative word. She glanced around at the rest of the room, which really looked as if it had been professionally pulled together. “By the way, that curtain turned out great.”

Ricky had draped the blue velvet curtain so that it closed off the entire end of the room. Once the curtain was pulled open, the stage set—really a round table and a few chairs—would be revealed. And the actors could make their entrances and exits via the Book Nook or Knitting Nest.

“Thanks,” said Ricky, shuffling his feet. “I'm happy to help. You've all been so nice to me. In spite of things.”

“Is it okay if Ricky hangs around?” asked Kit.

“He's been a big help so far,” said Toni.

“I guess so. Sure,” said Suzanne. She smiled at Ricky. “That's if you don't mind pitching in to bus dishes or load them in the dishwasher. We're going to be awfully busy tonight.”

“I'm not afraid of a little hard work,” said Ricky.

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
was just starting to light the candles when she heard a couple of cars roll into the parking lot. “The actors are here,” she called.

Within minutes, Sam, Carmen Copeland, Connie Halpern, Lolly Herron, and three other actors had piled into the Cackleberry Club. As they rushed into their dressing rooms du jour, Sam pulled Suzanne aside into a cozy embrace.

“You won!” he exclaimed, giving her a quick kiss.

“Just third place,” she told him. “How on earth did you hear?”

“Everybody knows,” said Sam. “It's all over town.”

“Really?”

“It was on the radio,” said Sam. “WLGN was broadcasting live from the fairgrounds, keeping everybody up to date on prize-winning hogs and pickles and pies.”

“And me,” said Suzanne, secretly pleased.

“Gotta run and change,” said Sam. He held up a plastic bag that contained his blue velvet Victorian cutaway suit, borrowed from another theater company in nearby Cornucopia.

“Go get gorgeous,” she told him. Even though she knew he already was.

*   *   *

T
HE
first guests began to trickle in around six-forty. By six-forty-five it turned into a torrent. Toni, wearing a sleek white blouse and long black skirt, clipboard in hand, checked off each guest's name and then led them to their seat.

Suzanne, Petra, Kit, and Ricky worked frantically in the kitchen. Because they'd be handling most of the serving duties, Suzanne and Kit were dressed in white blouses and slim black pants, while Petra and Ricky were dressed casually. Junior languished on the back porch, whittling a hunk of wood. The actors had tired of his incessant jabbering and kicked him out of the office.

Petra stirred a bowl of chutney that she was pairing with her first course, while Suzanne laid out small white plates. Kit was in a state of high excitement as she peeked out the pass-through.

“Did you guys know Sheriff Doogie was here?” Kit asked, her excitement suddenly shifting to nervousness.

“Doogie bought a ticket?” said Suzanne. Doogie had never bought a ticket to anything in his life. He just showed up and insinuated himself in whatever was happening, whether it was a church supper, fish fry at the VFW, or town picnic.

“I called and invited him,” said Petra. “Right after I looked at the list of ticket holders. I figured we might need a little extra security.”

“What are you talking about?” said Suzanne. It was a fancy dinner theater event, for gosh sakes. They were using napkin rings and serving wine.

“Take a gander at the crowd out there,” said Petra. “Tell me who you see.”

Suzanne peeped through the pass-through and studied the crowd. “Bruce Winthrop's here, which is nice. It's good that he's getting out and mingling, not fretting about the fire.”

“I'm not talking about him,” said Petra. “Keep looking.”

Suzanne continued to scan the room. Half the guests were already seated while the other half were still mingling and exchanging pleasantries. “Oh jeez, Jack Venable's here.” Her eyes followed him for a few seconds. “But nobody seems to be talking to him.”

“Uh-huh,” said Petra. “Keep looking.”

When Suzanne caught a glimpse of a woman with long blond hair, she suddenly puckered her brows. “Is that Annie Wolfson?”

“With her husband,” Petra said. There was a distinct
tone
to her voice.

“They're back together?”

“Personally,” said Petra, “I think they're just trying to put on a good show.”

“Do you think Marty Wolfson is the one who set the fire?” asked Kit. She glanced hastily at Ricky and then at Petra.

“Who knows?” said Petra. She opened her oven and pulled out a baking sheet filled with miniature meat pies. They were golden brown and looked like small apple turnovers.

“I guess we'll just have to keep an eye on Wolfson,” said Suzanne.

Petra pulled out a second sheet. “Keep looking, sweetie.”

“What?” said Suzanne just as Darrel Fuhrman ducked through the front door.

“Is he out there?” said Petra.

“You mean Darrel Fuhrman?” said Suzanne.

Petra nodded briskly as she stepped to the stove and gave a stir to her bubble and squeak.

“He just came in,” said Suzanne.

“You see why I called Doogie?” said Petra. “This isn't just dinner theater with
Blithe Spirit
, it's a real-life game of Clue. Or that movie version.”

“Hah,” said Toni as she slalomed through the swinging door and into the kitchen. “With Colonel Mustard in the library?”

“And Professor Plum poised with a lethal candlestick,” grunted Petra.

Or a can of kerosene
, thought Suzanne. She pushed her way into the café and slipped behind the counter. Sheriff Doogie was sitting on his favorite stool, his back against the marble counter as he gazed over the crowd with cool law enforcement eyes.

“Doogie,” Suzanne said in a low whisper.

His head swiveled around. Then the rest of his khaki bulk followed.

“Thanks for coming.”

Doogie gave an imperceptible nod. “Petra thought there might be trouble.”

“She's a worrywart,” said Suzanne. “Nothing's going to happen. There are way too many people here tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” said Doogie as he swiveled back around.

*   *   *

T
ONI
dimmed the overhead lights and a murmur of anticipation swept through the audience. Now the room was illuminated mostly by candlelight, which lent a flattering glow to all their guests' faces and made the room look elegant and theatrical.

As Connie Halpern stepped in front of the curtain, introducing herself and giving a heartfelt welcome, Toni, Suzanne, and Kit began pouring wine and serving their first course, the miniature meat pies.

And then, as wine was sipped and forks began to clank, the velvet curtain was swept aside, and a hush fell over the audience. Junior hit a button on the CD player, music filled the room, and their drawing-room comedy kicked off with a flourish.

Even though Carmen Copeland was a pill to deal with personally, Suzanne had to admit that she made a wonderfully credible Madame Arcati, a role that Angela Lansbury had made famous on Broadway. Her voice rose and fell melodically as she summoned the spirits to make their appearance. Of course, Sam was delightful as the irascible Dr. Bradman, and the actors who played the parts of Elvira, Ruth, and Charles were terrific as well.

“This feels like real dinner theater,” Toni whispered to Suzanne as they delivered their second course of bubble and squeak.

“Doesn't it?” said Suzanne. She was thrilled they'd drawn a full house tonight and tickled that their guests were entranced by the play. She decided, then and there, to do this again. Perhaps the Kindred Community Players could even stage
A Christmas Carol
for the holidays.

Back in the kitchen, Petra was busy slicing roast beef while Ricky was tasked with checking the scorched eggs.

“Are they cooked?” asked Petra.

Ricky shook his head, looking befuddled. “How do I tell?”

“Grab a knife and slice one open,” Petra instructed.

“Here,” said Kit. She handed Ricky a large butcher knife and watched as he balanced the knife in his right hand and then, in one swift motion, whacked a baked egg in half.

“Looks good,” said Ricky. “Cooked all the way through anyway, just like a hard-boiled egg.”

“One more thing gone right,” Petra murmured.

Then Suzanne and Toni were there to grab the third course and deliver it to their dinner guests.

As Suzanne slipped quietly around the tables, she marveled at the play. It really had a professional quality to it. Lights dimmed and winked out exactly on cue, the Victorian costumes were elegant, and the actors played their roles to the hilt.

Definitely have to do this again
, she decided.

At intermission, just before the final act and the dishing up of the pudding trifle, Suzanne took a short breather. She slipped out the back door with the cardboard box containing her baby owl.

Junior, Ricky, and Bruce Winthrop were all sitting on the back steps under a yellow bug light that cast an eerie glow and made them all look like aliens. The sun had long since dropped below the horizon and there was just a faint remnant of pink backlighting the woods.

“Working hard, gents?” Suzanne said.

Winthrop was smoking a cigarette while Junior was kvetching about hops and bitters and fermentation problems. Only Ricky stood up politely and moved from his spot, the better to let Suzanne pass.

“You need help with that?” asked Ricky.

At that exact moment, Toni stuck her head out the back door and shrilled, “Junior! Ricky! Get your lazy butts in here. There's work to be done!”

“Ain't she a slave driver?” Junior said to Ricky. “Come on, kid, we better haul anchor.”

Bruce Winthrop saw Suzanne walk toward the ladder and said, “Help you with that?” He took a final puff of his cigarette, flicked it away, and stomped it out carefully.

“Sure,” said Suzanne. “I want to try to put this baby owl back up in the tree with his momma.”

Winthrop peered into the box and smiled. “Cute little thing. You think she'll take him back?”

“That's what I'm about to find out,” said Suzanne. She tucked the box under her left arm, grasped the rail of the ladder with her right hand, and started to climb.

“Careful,” Winthrop cautioned.

Suzanne was twelve rungs up when she turned and made a face. “Ugh, this ladder's wiggly. Can you steady it?”

“Sure.”

Suzanne climbed up another ten rungs. For some reason, she hadn't realized how high up the hollow in the tree was, or that she'd be climbing a rickety extension ladder. Now, instead of high hopes at reuniting mother and baby, she was suddenly nervous. From where she was perched, hanging on with just one hand, it seemed like a long way down. It
was
a long way down.