Scorched Eggs (5 page)

“Whew,” said Toni. “But, please, tell us what's going on!”

“This whole idea has been gnawing at me for the past couple of hours,” said Petra. “Really tearing me up inside. I mean, I know Jack, he goes to our church. He's always seemed like a fairly respectable guy.”

“Except that he's cavorting with another woman,” said Toni. “Who is she? A waitress at Hoobly's? Or one of the dancers?”

“Is there a difference?” said Suzanne.

“There's a minor technicality,” said Toni.

“I don't know the exact details,” said Petra. “Hannah just confided to me one day that Jack wanted out.”

“Out of their marriage?” said Suzanne.

Petra nodded. “That's right.”

“So Hannah figured he was having an affair,” said Suzanne.

“That's right,” said Petra. She still hadn't touched her glass of wine, just kept twisting her hands together, over and over.

“You're sure Jack wasn't just having a fling?” asked Toni. “A one-shot passing fancy? Some guys edge into their fifties or sixties and they go a little nuts. ‘Middle-age crazy' I think they call it.”

“I think Jack Venable was pretty serious,” said Petra. “I think he was ready to walk out the door.”

Suzanne thought about this. “Let me get this straight. I think what you're really saying is that Hannah didn't want Jack to leave. She didn't want a divorce.”

Petra was near tears. “That's it exactly. She still loved Jack, human frailties and all.”

“But Jack wanted out,” said Toni.

“Yes,” Petra whispered. “I think he did. I'm pretty sure he did.”

“Hannah told you this?” said Suzanne.

“Yes,” said Petra. “A couple of weeks ago, Hannah pretty much broke down. It was right after church services, after our social hour. When we were cleaning up the coffee cups and cookie crumbs and things.”

Suzanne took a sip of wine and locked eyes with Toni, who gave a kind of grimace. She knew exactly what was running through Toni's mind, so she let her say it.

“Jeez,” said Toni. “If Jack Venable had something to do with that fire, it would make him suspect number one.”

“Worse than that,” said Suzanne, “it would make him a monster.”

Petra nodded. “I . . . I think so, too. I guess that's why I'm here.”

“So what do you guys think we should
do
with this information?” said Toni.

“Much as I'd like to, we can't exactly go cowboying over to Jack Venable's house and make a citizen's arrest,” said Suzanne.

“Then what?” said Petra.

Suzanne grimaced. “What we're going to have to do is share this information with Sheriff Doogie.”

“Ah,” said Petra. She leaned back against the sofa and sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

C
HICKEN
sausage and chopped red peppers sizzled in cast-iron frying pans. The tantalizing aromas of sour cream coffee cake and cinnamon muffins wafted from the oven. Saturday-morning service at the Cackleberry Club was going to be short and sweet. Just breakfast as usual and then a limited luncheon menu served until one-thirty.

“I feel all nervous and fumbling this morning,” Petra told Suzanne, who was standing at the butcher-block table, slicing ripe peaches. It was the last good fruit of the season. Until the apple harvest got fully under way.

“You're doing just fine,” Suzanne assured her. The truth of the matter was they were crazy busy. And all three of them, including Toni, who was out in the café taking orders like mad, didn't seem to be performing at the top of their game.

“I've got everything measured out for my cake batter,” said Petra. “As soon as my coffee cake and muffins come out of the oven . . . as soon as I have five minutes to breathe . . . as soon as I finish these pancakes . . . I'm going to whip up my batter and start baking cake layers.”

“How many layers for Kit's wedding cake?”

“Five,” said Petra, grabbing her bowl of pancake batter and giving it a quick stir.

“Sounds good to me,” said Suzanne. Kit and Ricky were having a smaller wedding, maybe forty or fifty guests, so that size cake should be just about right.

Petra diced a Vidalia onion and tossed it into a pan of hashed brown potatoes. “You think Doogie really will stop by today?”

“He'll be here,” said Suzanne. “When I called him earlier, I made it crystal clear that we needed to talk to him. As soon as was humanly possible.”

Petra looked nervous. “You said ‘we.' That means you and I? You're going to stand toe-to-toe with me on this, right?” She plunged a ladle into her pancake batter and dropped perfect little circles of batter onto her griddle.

“Of course, I will,” said Suzanne. “But it would be much better if the information—the explanation—came directly from you.”

Petra gave a mock shiver. “What if I'm butting in and doing the wrong thing? I mean, I don't really
know
what went on between Hannah and Jack Venable.”

“Sure you do,” said Suzanne. “You know it in your bones. And, believe me, you've got good bones.”

Toni came slaloming through the swinging door, carrying a handful of orders. “Hey, Davey Holzer is asking for an order of Canadian bacon. Do we have any of that left?”

“No,” said Petra. “There's nothing left. The pantry is empty.”

“Huh?” said Toni, frowning and looking around. “But you've got sausage and taters sizzling in your frying pans. And you're doing silver dollar pancakes, right?” She tiptoed over and peered at the grill. “I see bubbles popping up. You'd better hurry up and flip those puppies.”

Petra grabbed her spatula and flipped her pancakes just in the nick of time.

“Our Petra's feeling a bit frazzled this morning,” Suzanne explained to Toni. “She's nervous about talking to Doogie.”

“I can understand why,” said Toni. “That's a mighty big, red-hot, heartburn-inducing breakfast burrito that you're gonna lay on him.”

Petra looked even more upset. “I'm not making any accusations, per se. I'm just going to tell Doogie what I
know
.”

“And what you suspect,” said Toni.

“Toni,” said Suzanne. She knew she'd better stop this little back-and-forth between them. “You're just making things more tense.”

“I didn't mean to,” said Toni. She made a comical downturned face. “Jeez, Petra, I'm sorry if I upset you.”

Petra waved her big metal spatula as if to clear the air. “Oh, foo. Don't worry about me. I've been upset before. I'll get over it.”

Suzanne spread out a half dozen white plates and watched as Petra doled out sausages and hash browns.

“Great,” said Toni. “Thanks. I'll run these orders right out.”

“And these peaches are ready for the pancake orders,” said Suzanne.

“Got it,” said Petra. She placed four pancakes on each plate, then stepped back while Suzanne added sliced peaches and a dollop of whipped cream. She carried the plates to the pass-through slot and tapped a small silver bell, her signal to Toni that more orders were up.

Another sharp
ding
meant the oven timer had just gone off.

“Perfect,” said Petra, pulling her coffee cake and muffins from the oven.

“Gorgeously golden brown,” said Suzanne. “Now you can get on with baking your wedding cake.”

While Suzanne took over at the stove and filled orders for the next twenty minutes, Petra quickly mixed up her batter, filled five cake pans, and stuck them in the oven.

“You still look worried,” Suzanne observed.

“That's because I
am
worried,” said Petra.

“Think about the cake-decorating part. You always do such a wonderful job.” It was true. Petra's skill for baking made-from-scratch cakes, plus her ability to spin ordinary sugar-based frosting into intricate flowers, rosettes, and spirals, had convinced more and more customers that the Cackleberry Club was the perfect place to special order cakes for weddings, graduation parties, and birthdays.

Petra forced a smile. “I just have to stay positive today, especially for Kit's sake. I don't want to spoil her wedding after all.”

“Honey,” said Suzanne, “you could never do that.”

*   *   *

J
UST
as Suzanne was writing their abbreviated luncheon menu on the chalkboard, Sheriff Doogie walked in. Actually, it was more like a swagger. Doogie's hat was pulled low, he wore mirrored sunglasses, the kind state troopers favored, and his walk was distinctly jaunty. With a jingle of keys and a flap of his holstered gun, he took his customary seat at the counter.

Suzanne grabbed a cup of coffee for Doogie and set it in front of him, along with a knife, fork, spoon, and sugar bowl. Doogie had a ferocious sweet tooth and loved his sugar. Not just one or two lumps for him, it was more like three or four.

“Would you like a sweet roll, too?” Suzanne asked.

The brim on Doogie's hat dipped.

“And are you looking for a late breakfast or an early lunch?” Suzanne asked.

Doogie reached a big paw up and slid his hat off. He placed it on the stool next to him in a territorial manner, then ran a hand over his thinning gray hair.

“Depends on what you've got for lunch,” he growled.

“Well, it's a short day today, because of the wedding,” Suzanne told him. “So it's a short menu. We've got pita bread stuffed with grilled vegetables, ham and Swiss on rye, tomato soup, and tuna melties.”

“That's it? No cheeseburger?”

“If that's what your little heart desires, I'm sure we can rustle up a cheeseburger.”

“Naw,” said Doogie, squinting at the chalkboard. “I'll just go with the ham and cheese. But maybe make it cheddar cheese?”

“You got it,” said Suzanne. She printed out her order slip and slid it through the pass-through slot to the kitchen.

Petra leaned down and caught her eye, then made a little face. She was clearly nervous and getting cold feet.

Meanwhile, Doogie was surveying the café, which was almost half filled. Toni continued to scurry around, a coffeepot in each hand, pouring refills and joking with the customers. She could, Suzanne observed, charm the stitches off a baseball.

“I suppose people are still talking about yesterday's big fire,” said Doogie.

“That's pretty much all they're talking about,” said Suzanne. She hesitated. “Are you still going to pursue that arson angle?”

“I think we pretty much have to,” said Doogie. “Fire Chief Finley is pretty firm about it.”

“He's the expert,” said Suzanne.

“Actually,” said Doogie, “we've gone ahead and contacted some real experts, from the state crime lab. They should be hitting town later today.”

“I know you're busy,” said Suzanne. “So I want to thank you for coming in.”

“That's okay.” Doogie patted his ample belly. “A man's gotta eat.”

“I know, and I apologize for being a little vague on the phone with you first thing this morning. About asking you to come in and talk to Petra.”

“You were very mysterioso,” agreed Doogie. He took a sip of coffee. “So . . . what's up?”

“You're not going to believe this . . . and maybe it doesn't amount to anything, but . . .”

The front door to the café suddenly flew open and a tall, red-faced man appeared in the doorway. His blue-and-white-checkered shirt was half un-tucked from his jeans, his boots were only half laced, and waves of anger seemed to radiate off him like gamma rays.

“What on earth?” said Suzanne. She wasn't the only one staring at this strange man. Now pretty much everyone in the café had turned to look, too.

The man lifted a hand and pointed in Suzanne's direction. “You!” he thundered.

“Me?” she said, her heart catching in her throat. Who was this man? And what had she done to get him so riled up?

And then Doogie turned and slipped off his stool in one fluid motion. He anchored himself in place, feet apart, hands on his belt, and said, “He means me, don't you?”

“Who is he?” Suzanne hissed.

“Marty Wolfson,” said Doogie, keeping his voice low. “The husband of the woman who was rescued from that second-floor apartment yesterday. The
estranged
husband.”

“Oh,” said Suzanne as Wolfson clomped across the floor toward Doogie, and all her customers watched with growing curiosity.

“What do you want, Wolfson?” asked Doogie. His meaty face wore the bored look of a duly elected sheriff who'd seen it all. Or at least most of it.

But Marty Wolfson had worked up a giant head of steam and wasn't about to be put off by Doogie's calm yet authoritative demeanor.

“You're investigating
me
?” Wolfson shouted. “Are you serious?”

“I'm the one who generally asks the questions around here,” said Doogie.

“And you've been asking them behind my back!” snarled Wolfson. “How dare you!”

Suzanne's eyes bounced from Doogie to Wolfson and then back to Doogie, as if she were following a championship tennis match instead of a raging argument. She couldn't believe that the normally excitable Doogie was keeping his cool. And she couldn't believe how angry Marty Wolfson was. Every time he started in on a new rant, drops of spittle exploded from his mouth. She made a note to wipe down the entire marble counter with a good dose of Lysol.

“Back off, Wolfson,” Doogie warned. His voice carried a flinty edge as he held up a hand.

But Wolfson was overwrought and seething with indignation. “How
dare
you!” His right hand was clenched in a fist and his entire arm seemed to be spasming. “If you weren't—”

“Gentlemen,” said Suzanne, suddenly finding her voice. “I think you need to take this outside.” She was well aware that her customers were hanging on every single word. She didn't doubt that they were itching to see a physical confrontation, too.

“She's right,” said Doogie. “Outside with you.” Doogie made a shooing motion with his hand. “Now.”

“You arrogant blowhard!” Wolfson shouted. “You've got nothin' on me!” He spun fast and his shoulder caught the edge of an antique wooden cupboard that stood next to the kitchen door. The cupboard shook, the colorful flock of ceramic chickens that perched on the shelves rattled precariously, and then one little hen, a Speckled Sussex chicken, suddenly toppled over and plunged to her death. Hitting the floor, she shattered into a dozen pieces.

Wolfson clumped out, with Doogie close on his heels.

“Great gobs of gook!” cried Toni. She'd been watching the whole messy encounter with saucer-sized eyes. “That jerk just broke one of our chickens.”

“It's okay,” said Suzanne, though she knew it really wasn't. Anytime a precious memento got broken it was like a dagger to the heart.

Showtime being over, their customers turned back to their breakfasts. But Toni knelt down and carefully gathered up the broken pieces in her apron.

“Poor little chickie,” said Toni, cradling the largest part. “Broke its little neck clean off.”

“What are you people
doing
out there?” Petra called through the pass-through. “If this cake falls while it's in the oven, somebody's going to pay dearly!”

*   *   *

F
IVE
minutes later, Sheriff Doogie strode back into the Cackleberry Club. He sat down and rested his elbows heavily on the counter.

“Is my sandwich ready yet?” he asked.

“Coming right up,” said Suzanne. She turned, grabbed a platter, and set the whole thing in front of Doogie. “Petra grilled it and added some hash browns, too.”

Too bad she didn't slip a Xanax in there.

“Good,” said Doogie. He picked up a half sandwich and started eating with gusto. “Arguing with jackholes always works up my appetite,” he said, between bites.

“I can see that,” said Suzanne. “So . . . that guy Wolfson. I take it he's one of your arson suspects?”

“One of them,” Doogie said in a noncommittal tone.

“He seems like a real hothead.”

Doogie stabbed at his hash browns. “Now we just need to find out if he's a firebug, too.”

“Why do you think he would be?” asked Suzanne. She couldn't imagine that a husband, even one who was estranged, would try to kill his wife and child. Or set fire to the entire building.

“I talked to Mrs. Wolfson,” said Doogie. “Annie. Even though they're separated, she acts like she's afraid of him.”

“Really?”

Doogie nodded. “Annie also told me that her husband's name is still on her parents' will and all their joint insurance policies.”