Scorched Eggs (7 page)

Suzanne thought about making a nasty crack about sticking a newspaper in the bottom of a birdcage. But she was a friend of Laura Benchley, the editor and publisher of the
Bugle
,
so instead she said, “I don't have anything for you, Gene. I don't
know
anything.”

Disappointed, Gandle began slouching his way back toward the door. Then he turned and called back at her, “When you figure something out, I expect a call from you. You owe me one!”

“I don't owe you anything,” said Suzanne as Gandle slammed the door.

“Who was that?” asked Toni. She'd slid through the swinging door so quietly she might have been a cat on the prowl.

“Gene Gandle. Sniffing around for news on the fire.”

“More like skulking,” said Toni, glancing out into the parking lot. “What a putz.” She paused, squinted, and said, “Uh-oh.”

Suzanne tensed. “Don't tell me Gandle's coming back in?”

“Naw,” said Toni. “Junior just drove up.”

Junior Garrett, Toni's estranged husband, was a character in and of himself. He barely held down his job at Shelby's Auto, lived in a secondhand trailer home that was parked illegally out by the town dump, and had never seen a junker car that he didn't fall in love with. He was your basic sixteen-year-old juvenile delinquent in a forty-three-year-old man's body.

The door rattled loudly, then Junior strolled in, carrying a large amber bottle. Dressed in his typical black leather jacket and saggy jeans, a silver wallet chain dangling from his belt, Junior took his own sweet time, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

Toni put her hands on her hips in a gesture of confrontation. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Got something to show you ladies,” said Junior, a smirk on his dark face.

“What's that?” said Suzanne.

Junior thrust his bottle forward with all the excitement of someone who's just stolen a quart of water from the fountain of youth. “This here!” he said excitedly.

“It's beer,” said Toni, peering at the bottle, definitely not impressed.

“But not just
any
beer,” said Junior, undaunted. “It's
craft
beer.”

“Craft beer,” Suzanne repeated. God help her, but she found this man's chutzpah and constant stream of crazy ideas absolutely mesmerizing. Once again, she felt like a charmed mongoose drawn to a dangerous cobra.

“It's my own brand,” said Junior, angling the bottle to show off a scruffy-looking brown label. “Hubba Bubba beer. Pretty neat, huh?”

“Where'd you get it?” said Toni.

Junior grinned stupidly, then waggled his head and did a little jig in place. “Hah, hah, I
made
it!”

“You. Brewed. Beer?” said Suzanne.

“Seriously?” said Toni. And then, “Where?”

“In my bathtub,” said Junior. “Like I said, it's
craft
beer. That means you brew it in real small batches until it catches on and develops a cult following.”

“You think some swill you cooked up in your dirty bathtub will draw a following?” said Toni. She did everything but let loose a loud, derisive hoot.

“Sure,” said Junior. “This beer thing is a huge trend. Don't you get it? Haven't you heard of microbrewing?”

“I have heard of it,” said Suzanne. In fact, she had a feeling that every beer aficionado and his brother-in-law were brewing micro beers and dreaming up wacky names like Hound Doggie and Red Demon and Buster Boy Beer.

“Have you made any sales yet?” asked Toni.

“Ah,” said Junior. “Now you're talking about distribution, a critical component of my marketing effort.”

“What
is
your marketing effort?” Suzanne asked.

“I was thinking about doing a Facebook page or putting a video on YouTube. Hope it all goes viral.”

“Social media,” said Toni.

“Yeah,” said Junior. “I gotta do some of that, too.”

Suzanne shook her head. She really didn't want to hear any more. Better, she decided, to change the subject entirely. “Are you coming to the wedding this afternoon?” she asked.

“Heck, yes,” said Junior, his eyes lighting up like a pinball machine. “I wouldn't miss it for the world. Ricky's a great kid. I once helped him install a Hemi in his '88 Camaro. I tried to talk him into letting me race it over at Golden Springs Speedway, but he said no way.”

“Smart kid,” said Suzanne.

“Heh heh.” Junior was dancing his little jig again.

“Now what?” said Toni. “Why are you cackling like a rabid turkey?”

“We got major plans for Ricky's car!”

“Who's got major plans?” Petra called out. She was scrunched down, gazing out at them through the pass-through.

“Me and some of the guys from Shelby's Auto,” Junior told her. “We're gonna tie a bunch of tin cans to his back bumper. And then shoot Silly String all over the hood and windows.”

“That's very mature of you, Junior,” said Suzanne.

Junior's shoulders slumped. “Oh, come on, Suzanne. It's a
wedding.
That's what people do. It's considered . . . romantic.”

“Scraping Silly String off your windshield is romantic?” said Petra.

“Okay, look at it this way,” said Junior. “It's traditional.”

“So is throwing salt over your shoulder to ward off the devil, but you don't catch me doing that,” said Petra. “I rely on good old-fashioned prayer.”

But Toni was starting to see the humor in Junior's Silly String décor. “Something old, something new,” she chuckled. “Something sticky with pink goo.”

“Good one!” said Junior, shooting an index finger at her.

*   *   *

O
NCE
Junior had been hustled out of the Cackleberry Club, they all convened in the kitchen to gaze in wonderment at Petra's cake.

“Gorgeous,” said Suzanne. Petra had stacked three round twelve-inch layer cakes straight up, then carefully tilted two more eight-inch layers on top of that. The upshot was that the cake looked like two frilly hatboxes, the smaller hatbox set at an artful angle. Each hatbox was decorated with fondant roses, ferns, and daisies, and strung with strands of fondant pearls. At the very tippy-top she'd placed a sugary bride and groom.

“Kit's gonna go crazy for this,” said Toni. “It's perfect!” She glanced over at a piece of paper that was stuck to Petra's corkboard. “Oh, you guys already put together the menu for our big shindig next Friday?” Next Friday evening, the Cackleberry Club was hosting a dinner theater, the first ever done in Kindred. They'd been approached by the Kindred Community Players and asked to put together a British-themed dinner, while the actors staged Noël Coward's
Blithe
Spirit.
Tickets were priced at $25 each, with proceeds going to the local library. Needless to say, all of the tickets had already been sold.

“I've got the menu,” said Petra. “I just don't know if I have the energy for one more big project.”

“Come on,” said Toni, “it's almost a week away. You'll be fine.”

“I hope so,” said Petra. She touched a finger to the cake, pressing one of her fondant ferns a little tighter into the frosting.

“How are you planning to get your cake to the reception hall?” asked Suzanne. “Is somebody from the wedding party going to drop by and pick it up?”

Petra glanced at her watch. “Joey promised to come by at two.” Joey was their slacker busboy who worked for them on occasion. Joey's major avocations in life were skateboarding, snowboarding, wearing rapper chain jewelry, and trying to keep his baggy M.C. Hammer pants from sliding down and puddling around his ankles.

“Wait a minute,” said Suzanne. “You said pick it up. That means he's driving?”

“Joey's going to borrow his mom's station wagon,” said Petra.

“And he's going to deliver the wedding cake to Schmitt's Bar?” said Suzanne. That was where the reception was taking place. At Schmitt's Bar in their newly remodeled Boom Boom Room.

“Jeez, I hope they remember to move the Pac-Man machine out of the way,” Toni fretted.

“I just hope Joey's got a legitimate driver's license,” said Suzanne.

S
UZANNE
sat at her dressing table in her upstairs bedroom, gazing into the mirror. She was dressed and almost ready, but concerned with her hair, which she thought looked a little too fluffy. As if that wasn't enough, she was thinking she might have spackled on a little too much eye shadow. On the other hand, she was wearing a black dress, which had a slight cocktail feel to it. So . . . what was her look today? Sophisticate or strumpet?

Stop that ridiculous negative talk this instant
, she chided herself.
You look good. In fact, you look elegant. Kind of like . . .

She tilted her head. Maybe a touch of Michelle Pfeiffer? Hmm. No, not really. But maybe, with her hair poufed up, she looked a little like Linda Evans? In the
Dynasty
years anyway.

Sam Hazelet emerged from the bathroom and stood behind her, fussing with his cuff links. He'd come directly from the Westvale Clinic, his suit packed up nice and neat in a black plastic carry-on bag. Now, standing there in his navy blue suit with his pale blue shirt and red rep tie, he looked very dapper and elegant.

“Hey, you look great,” Sam told her.

Suzanne gazed into the mirror at his reflection. “You do, too,” she replied. Did he know she was devouring him with her eyes? Or should she try to be a little more subtle? But, yee gads, the man was handsome. Plus, he was four years younger than she was. Which somehow struck her as being awfully neat. A lady in her mid-forties attracting a guy who was young enough to be her . . . boyfriend.

“So what kind of wedding is this, anyway?” Sam asked. He was trying to keep the very affectionate and nosy Baxter from rubbing up against him and laying down a carpet of silver dog hair on his newly dry-cleaned slacks.

“I think you could characterize it as a nondenominational-outdoorsy-Edwardian-slash-vintage wedding.”

Sam looked puzzled. “Women are really into that kind of stuff, aren't they?”

Suzanne held up a strand of pearls and smiled at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know, specific
theme
weddings. Like beach weddings, Renaissance fair weddings, Victorian weddings . . .”

“You seem to know a lot about this.” Suzanne fastened the pearls around her neck and adjusted them carefully.

“Nah, we just have umpteen dog-eared copies of
Modern Bride
piled up in the waiting room.” Sam paused, looking down at his slacks. “Hey, do you have one of those lint roller things?”

Suzanne reached into a drawer, poked past a tangle of panty hose, combs, and perfume samples, and pulled one out for him. “I guess women just enjoy weddings,” she said. “All the parties, planning, and pageantry. To say nothing of the romance.” She turned slightly in her chair and gazed sideways at him. “I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing, do you?”

Sam was diligently working the lint roller up and down his slacks. “I guess not,” he replied.

*   *   *

S
WEET
strains of harp music greeted Suzanne, Sam, and the other guests as they strolled down a grassy lane edged with birch trees. The leaves rustled lightly in the afternoon breeze; the sun shone down brightly from a powder blue sky. Then, as they rounded a small tree, where white ribbons fluttered from its branches, they found themselves in a secluded woodsy bower. Now a violin and keyboard joined in and the strains of Bach's Sinfonia from Cantata 29 echoed through the oaks and poplars where the octagonal-shaped wedding gazebo was located.

As Suzanne gazed at the décor, she couldn't help but gasp in wonderment. The old-fashioned gazebo was trimmed with tiny white lights and garlands of pink and white roses. Leafy green vines woven with daisies were strung overhead from tree to tree. White candles flickered from their perches in trees and in dozens of hanging candle holders. Fifty white wooden folding chairs were arranged in a semicircle. Flanking the chairs were enormous bouquets of gladiolas and zinnias. A center aisle of dark green moss was lined with white candles flickering in mason jars.

“This is amazing,” said Sam, looking around. “I've never seen anything like it. All that's missing are elves and a flock of white doves.”

“It's truly magical, isn't it?” said Suzanne.

“Really gorgeous. The décor conveys wedding, but it's not the stuffy kind of wedding that men tend to shy away from. There's this feeling of openness and nature and . . . of everything being fresh and green.”

“God's own cathedral,” Suzanne murmured to herself, loving how the flora and fauna had turned this small piece of parkland into a glorious intimate space, wondering at the same time if something like this might ever be in her own future.

As guests continued to stream in, Suzanne quickly spotted Toni and Petra.

“Let's go join the ladies, shall we?” Suzanne said to Sam.

He followed after her, clasping her hand tightly, as they edged their way along a row of chairs, nodding and smiling at friends, stopping every few feet to talk.

“I feel like I just got picked up by some crazy tornado and dropped into a magical kingdom,” were Toni's first words once they all met up.

“This really is spectacular,” Suzanne agreed.

“Never seen anything like it,” said Sam, who kept gazing in awe at the vines strung overhead.

“You know who arranged all this, don't you?” said Petra.

“Who?” they all asked at once, sounding like a chorus of owls.

“Brett and Greg's little side business,” said Petra. “Party Animal.”

“I always knew they had a flair for the dramatic,” said Suzanne. “I mean, they helped set up that spa tea for us last year . . . but this. This kind of blows my mind.”

“Look at the programs,” said Petra, picking one up off a chair. “Sepia-toned ink printed on vintage-looking paper. And look at the edges.” The edges of the program had been cut in such a way that they formed a lace border.

“Oh sure,” said Suzanne. “They used one of those special deckle-edge scissors, like you find in scrapbook shops.”

“I'm gonna get me a pair of those scissors,” said Toni. “Maybe I can learn to make cards and programs like this. It could be a sort of sideline business.”

“Here's your sideline,” Petra said under her breath. “Or would you call him more of a sideshow?”

Junior, wearing blue jeans, scuffed black motorcycle boots, and an '80s-style black suit jacket with shoulders that were two sizes too large, was heading directly toward them.

“How goes it?” asked Junior, giving a hearty wave. He joined the group, leaned in, and curled an arm possessively around Toni's waist. “You look great!” He planted a lopsided kiss on her cheek. “Grrrr, you smell good, too. What's that you're wearing? Perfume?”

“No, it's my flea and tick collar,” said Toni. “Yes, it's perfume.” She pulled away. “And please stop jerking my dress up.”

“Nag, nag, nag,” said Junior, grinning stupidly. He glanced at Sam. “You see why Toni and I get along so well?”

“Looks like a marriage made in Heaven to me,” said Sam.

Suzanne gave him a subtle sideways kick in the ankle.

“Ooh,” said Sam. “Or some other prime location in the afterlife.”

“You oughta see what we did to Ricky's car,” said Junior. “It's so cool, even the sheriff stopped by to take a look.”

“Yeah, right,” said Toni.

“Maybe we should all take our seats?” said Petra. She was the churchiest one of the bunch, always concerned with decorum and proper etiquette. Toni generally winged it, while Suzanne played it slightly close to the edge.

They took their places in the third row of chairs from the front. Sam, Suzanne, Toni, Junior, and Petra, in that order.

Toni leaned forward to talk to Petra. “You're wearing slacks. I thought you were going to wear your pink lace dress.”

Petra stared stolidly at her. “The only time I wear a dress is when all my fat pants are in the laundry.”

Junior gave a snort, which was immediately quashed by Petra's cold, dead-on gaze.

Toni punched Junior in the arm, then whispered, “Sorry,” to Petra. “Didn't mean to hit a nerve.” She turned the other way to face Suzanne and grasped for her hand. “Isn't this one of the prettiest weddings you've ever seen?”

“I had no idea you could take a slice of a city park and make it look this stunning,” said Suzanne.

“Makes me want to get married all over again,” said Toni.

“No,” Suzanne whispered. “Take a deep breath and wipe that thought from your sweet little head.”

Toni chuckled, and then nodded at Sam, who was busy talking to a man in the row behind him. “What about you two?” she whispered. “Any plans?”

“When there are,” said Suzanne, “you'll be the first to know.”

*   *   *

A
S
the musicians struck up another tune, a hush fell over the crowd. Everyone turned in their seats or crooked their heads around, the better to see.

Ricky Wilcox and his best man, a fellow Suzanne recognized as the bag boy from Dill's Supermarket, came walking down the aisle. Both wore lavender tuxedos with frilly shirts. In any other situation, they might have looked like they were all decked out for the junior prom, but when they climbed the steps to the white wooden gazebo and took their places, the tuxes suddenly looked appropriate.

The two men were followed by Reverend Judith Wilson, wearing a long black robe. Reverend Wilson was the new minister at the Unitarian Church and also brand-new to Kindred. She seemed friendly and nice, and had agreed to perform Kit and Ricky's wedding ceremony even though they both claimed it was nondenominational.

Suzanne figured that with church attendance on the wane these days, you had to get your audience wherever you could.

Kit's matron of honor, her older sister, Cara, was next. She walked slowly down the aisle, followed by two small girls, flower girls, who dipped their hands into little baskets and scattered white petals along the way.

“Aren't they adorable?” Toni said under her breath.

Suzanne had to agree.

There was a short pause. Then the trio broke into the opening strains of Pachelbel's Canon in D Major and Kit suddenly appeared. As the music swelled in sweetness and intensity, she hesitated for a moment, glancing around with a smile, knowing all eyes were upon her. Then she walked slowly down the center aisle of emerald green moss. Another hush fell across the guests and then a few whispers started up, because she really did look stunning.

Kit's Empire-waist wedding gown was cream colored with a long, lacy train. It fluttered and flowed as she walked, making her look like a ripe earth mother, almost a throwback to the '60s. She wore a wreath of woven leaves and flowers in her long, blond hair and she carried three white calla lilies with trailing ribbons. As she walked down the aisle, her almond-shaped eyes, tipped with luxurious lashes, shone with happiness.

She looks radiant
, Suzanne thought to herself.

“Wow,” said Toni. And then in a whisper to Suzanne, “See? You can't even tell she has a bun in the oven.”

“Shhh!” Suzanne put an index finger to her lips. This wasn't the time or place for that. This was Kit's big day, her glorious wedding day, and nothing could or should take away from that.

As Kit walked past them, Sam reached down and gently twined his fingers with Suzanne's. She'd been thinking back to her own wedding day, some ten years ago with Walter. Now Sam's touch brought her back to the here and now.

No looking back
, Suzanne told herself
. Live for today. Make every second
count.

And then Kit was mounting the three steps that led to the gazebo's platform and Ricky took her by the arm, pulling her close to his side as if he never wanted to let her go.

Reverend Wilson began by reading a poem. And then the trio played a soft melody that Suzanne recognized as the English folk song “Greensleeves.” Soon it was time for the exchange of vows.

Kit and Ricky had written their own vows. Ricky spoke first, promising to love, protect, and respect Kit. Telling her that she was the love and the light of his life.

And then it was Kit's turn. With every eye (many of them damp) focused upon her, she spoke slowly and clearly in a melodious voice.

“I love you with all my heart,” Kit told Ricky. “I was lost until you came into my life and found me. Now, I feel complete. Ricky, I promise always to respect you, take care of you, and give you comfort, long into our old age.”

“So sweet,” said Toni, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie.

“And now the exchange of rings,” said Reverend Wilson.

Ricky's best man dug in his vest pocket and pulled out two thin gold bands.

“Ricky,” said Reverend Wilson, “place your ring on Kit's hand and repeat after me. With this ring . . .”

“With this ring,” Ricky repeated.

“I thee . . .” began Reverend Wilson.

And that's when Kit's picture-perfect wedding erupted into a complete nightmare.

“Stop!” commanded a loud, authoritative voice.

“What?” said Suzanne, shocked. What was going on here? There was the loud tromp of boots and what seemed like a kind of shoving match at the entrance to the clearing. Suzanne stood up halfway, and was stunned to see Sheriff Doogie and two of his deputies thundering down the aisle, looking grim-faced and determined.

“Excuse me!” said Reverend Wilson with all the outrage she could muster. “There's a solemn wedding ceremony being . . .”

Doogie held up a meaty hand. “Sorry, but it's going to have to wait.” Taking two steps at a time, he leapt up onto the gazebo and dropped a heavy hand on Ricky's shoulder. “I'm sorry to tell you this, son, but you're under arrest on suspicion of arson and probable murder.”