Stake & Eggs (12 page)

“Maybe,” said Suzanne, “that’s because I’m a smart lady!”

But as she stepped away from the table to tend to her other customers, Rapson muttered
after her, “You haven’t heard the last from me—or my bank. No matter what kind of
town you think you live in.”

C
HILLS
trickled down Suzanne’s spine as Rapson’s words drifted after her.

Taking a deep breath, she willed herself not to turn around or show any fear.
Hold it together, girl,
she told herself.
It’s like dealing with an
aggressive dog.
Never react, never show fear. You’re the one in charge.

But inside she was spitting mad.

Who did Rapson think he was, anyway? God’s gift to the financial world? The bank czar?
And he was going to have the sole vote when it came to choosing Kindred’s next bank
president? Rapson’s arrogance and rudeness were practically beyond belief.

Once she was safely behind the counter, Suzanne looked around the café at her happy,
good-natured customers—all but two of them, anyway—and tried to shake it off.

Enough. She wasn’t about to let Ed Rapson get under her skin. On the other hand, her
instincts told her to keep a sharp eye on him, just in case. There was something about
the man, besides his arrogance and foolish words, that made her more than a little
jumpy.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” Toni had edged up beside her.

“Rapson,” Suzanne said, under her breath. “Acting the fool again.”

Toni glanced over at Rapson and said, with all seriousness, “I don’t think he was
acting. I think he really is.”

Which caused them both to dissolve in giggles.

“Maybe we should give him the Cackleberry Club Egghead Award,” said Toni.

“We have that?” asked Suzanne, playing along.

“Sure,” said Toni. “Big gold statue that kind of looks like a bowling trophy, only
with an egg. Or we could give it to Lester Drummond, whatever tickles your fancy.”
She lowered her voice. “I saw Drummond flirting with you earlier.” She poked an index
finger toward her mouth and said, “Gag.”

“You got that right,” said Suzanne. Then she sobered slightly. “But the weird thing
is, both those guys are sort of mixed up in this murder case.”

“A lot of people are.”

“Unfortunately, there don’t seem to be any solid suspects,” said Suzanne.

“Doogie’s got nuthin’?” asked Toni.

“I don’t know what’s going on with him,” Suzanne said as she reached to grab the phone.
“But I’m gonna give him a call and find out.”

“Atta girl,” said Toni. “See what’s shakin’.”

Suzanne dialed Doogie’s number from memory, waited a beat, and then said, “Oh crud,
voice mail.”

“Leave him a message anyway,” Toni urged.

Suzanne nodded, then said into the phone, “I know you’re hard at work doing your job
and all, Sheriff, but it’s important I know where you are with a couple of things.
If you could drop by the Cackleberry Club, today yet, that would be great. Oh…and
there’s cake. We’ve got cake.”

“Gingerbread cake,” said Toni, leaning in to the receiver.

“Okay, thanks,” said Suzanne, and hung up.

“Think he’ll show up?” asked Toni.

Suzanne shrugged. “Dunno. Hope so. Cake’s always a major incentive.” She reached for
a sleek black tin. “I think I’ll shake things up today and brew jasmine tea.”

“Yum,” said Toni. “And Petra’s got lemon scones baking in the oven.”

Suzanne tilted her head toward Rapson and Wick. “As soon as those two hunyucks leave,
we’ll set up for tea. White tablecloths, sugar cubes, lemon slices, the whole nine
yards.”

“Maybe I’ll go help things along with Tweedledum and Tweedledee over there,” said
Toni. “Deliver their tab and start clearing dishes.”

“Do that,” said Suzanne. She danced around the counter and cut across the café, over
to the sputtering cooler that sat against the wall. Its shelves were stocked with
jars of fat dill pickles, canned jellies and jams, and wonderful gouda and Swiss cheeses.
These were all items that local producers brought in to the Cackleberry Club to sell.
It was pretty much a win-win situation for all concerned. Suzanne took a small percentage
of retail sales, and the growers and producers got the lion’s share. But as Suzanne’s
eyes scanned the shelves, she noticed they had nary a loaf of homemade bread. She
made a mental note to call Shar Sandstrom, one of their top bakers of banana and cranberry
bread, and ask her to pretty please bring some more loaves in.

Then, because Petra’s Stitch & Bitch was happening tonight, Suzanne popped into the
Knitting Nest to check on things. She’d tried to do that before, but the appearance
of Elise Steiner had pretty much derailed her efforts.

Just as Suzanne finished stacking a pyramid of colorful yarns, she heard a rumble
in the parking lot out front.

Doogie? Already? Hope so.

Suzanne walked out into the café and glanced around. Rapson and Wick were finally
gone, the tables were draped in white linen, and tiny white candles flickered in glass
candle holders. Perfection.

But what on earth was that awful racket outside?

Suzanne pushed back a drapery sheer and looked out the window.

“What’s going on?” called Toni. She was polishing a silver spoon on her apron.

Suzanne gazed through frosted whirls and swirls, and said, “I think it’s Junior.”

“No way!” Toni’s voice rose in a squawk, and she flew across the café. “What’s that
lamebrain doing here? He’s supposed to be at work. If he got fired again, I’ll…” She
cocked an arm and made a threatening fist.

“Maybe he’s come to see you,” said Suzanne.

“You think?” Toni suddenly looked pleased.

“Wait a minute,” said Suzanne, catching her dramatic shift in mood. “I thought you
were hot to get a divorce.”

“I am,” said Toni. “Except that…wait a minute, is he…? I think he’s driving a different
car. Yup, that’s one of his clunkers. Hmm. Looks like he finally got that old Chevy
running.” Junior, who’d studied car repair after reform school, was a magnet for junked
cars. If a car didn’t run, had a bad transmission, or was propped up on blocks, Junior
fell in love with it, no matter how useless or defective it might be. Go figure.

They watched through the window as Toni’s juvenile-delinquent husband climbed from
his car. Dressed in his typical black leather jacket and saggy jeans, Junior took
his own sweet time, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“What’s he up to?” muttered Toni.

Instead of heading for the warmth of the Cackleberry Club, Junior strolled around
the car, as if conducting an official vehicle inspection. Finally, he glanced over
at the window, saw them watching, and gave a wave.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Toni said under her breath.

“What’s he doing?” asked Suzanne.

“Something about his car.”

“I think he wants us to come out there,” said Suzanne.

Junior motioned to them again. He was a bandy rooster with a dark complexion, and
his dark hair was swirled and slicked into a pompadour that would have made James
Dean proud.

“What?” Toni mouthed at the window.

“I gotta show you guys something,” came Junior’s faint voice.

Suzanne opened the door and leaned out. “What’s going on? Car trouble?”

“Come on out,” said Junior. “I got a kind of demonstration.”

“Outside? In the cold?” said Suzanne.

Junior extended both arms and gave an exaggerated nod.

“Humor him,” said Toni as they shrugged into their coats and trooped outside.

“What’s up?” asked Suzanne, her breath pluming in front of her.

That was the precise opening Junior was waiting for. He suddenly walked to the hood
of his burgundy Chevy Impala and pulled it open with a flourish of his grimy hands.

“This is it,” he announced. “My newest invention.”

Toni frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Junior grinned and pointed.

Suzanne and Toni gazed down at Junior’s oil-crusted engine. To the left of his corroded
battery, a battered bread pan had been wired to the top of the manifold.

“What is it?” Suzanne asked.

“A car cooker,” said Junior. He rubbed his hand back and forth, caressing the Chevy’s
front bumper like it was a stripper’s thigh. “Can you believe it? I’m this close to
busting with excitement. I couldn’t wait to drive over here and show you all. This
is the latest and greatest. Gonna make me a million bucks.”

Petra suddenly tromped out onto the front porch. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Car
trouble?”

“Car cooker,” said Junior. “My new invention.”

“It looks like you wired on a bread pan,” Petra observed.

“That’s just one of several specialized attachments,” said Junior. “This one’s been
carefully engineered for cooking meatloaf.”

“Engineered? Meatloaf?” said Suzanne, incredulously.
She seemed to be having trouble grasping the concept of actually cooking food inside
a car’s engine.

Toni blew out a breath in exasperation. “Next to the gerbil farm, this is the stupidest
scheme you’ve come up with yet.”

“No, it ain’t,” Junior replied patiently. “Mark my words, this is the next big thing
in engine-block cooking. It’s true automotive cuisine!” He gazed at them like they
were a troop of third graders who needed a remedial explanation. “All right, lemme
explain. Let’s say you’re headed out on a long trip. So first you mix up your meatloaf
at home, and then you set it going in the cooker. Then, when you’re driving along
and your hunger pangs start to kick in, well, you just stop by the side of the road
and have yourself a nice tasty dinner.”

They all stared at him.

“Think about it,” Junior boasted. “It sure beats going into some greasy spoon diner
in some godforsaken place and paying six ninety-five for a blue plate special that
probably came out of a can.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Petra.

Suzanne gazed at Petra. “You are officially scaring me.”

Petra shrugged. “They don’t teach this in culinary school, but at least it’s home
cooking.”

“No,” said Suzanne, “it’s car cooking. Big difference. Think about it, do you really
want your meatloaf seasoned with a splash of WD-40?”

“Mmn,” said Petra, wrinkling her nose. “Perhaps not.”

“So Junior,” said Suzanne. “Supposing this really does work, exactly how long does
meatloaf have to cook in that thing?”

Totally in his element now, Junior flashed a self-satisfied smile and said, “Four
hundred degrees for one hundred and twenty miles.”

“S
TUPID
,” said Toni. She picked up a ceramic mug and banged it against the counter. “Stupid,
stupid, stupid.”

“His invention wasn’t
that
bad,” said Suzanne. Now that they were back in the warmth of the Cackleberry Club,
she could afford to be charitable.

“Wasn’t it?” said Toni. She shook her head. “He told me he’d find a use for that old
Chevy, and he did. Can’t hardly drive the thing ’cause the rear end shimmies so bad.”

“Maybe Junior could add some kind of cocktail-shaker attachment,” Petra said, with
a wicked grin.

“In this weather?” said Suzanne. “Only if you’re making frozen daiquiris.”

Petra gazed at Toni. “I think you’re still in love with Junior.” When Toni blushed,
she said, “Yeah, you are. I can see it in your face. He reels you in like a fish.
You can’t help yourself around that greasy little bumpkin. You’re just stuck, girl.”

“Am not,” said Toni, but she smiled and ducked her head.

“Love is blind,” said Suzanne.

“Yeah, well, if love is blind,” said Toni, “why is lingerie so popular?”

“Is it?” said Petra.

Toni nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah. Junior’s forever buying me these frilly little teddies.
I can barely figure out how to get them on, never mind take them off. I have no idea
where he gets them or
when
he gets them. Lord knows, the man doesn’t have time to file his income taxes or replace
his bald tires. But these teddies, he can make time for. For all I know he’s a Victoria’s
Secret junkie!”

“Excuse me,” said Petra, “but if we’re talking about underwear—and I think the conversation
just veered that way—I plan to stick with my granny panties, thank you very much.
There’s nothing to hook, button, buckle, or untangle. That’s how underwear should
be. Simple and uncomplicated.”

Toni burst out laughing. “Petra, I never knew you had such strong feelings about this
subject. Where have you been hiding this philosophy of yours? This is a whole new
side of you!”

All three of them were laughing now, giggling like a bunch of schoolgirls. It felt
good to let loose and kick back a little.

“But here’s the thing about a man who gives you lingerie,” said Toni, after a minute.
“If he’s not sophisticated enough to order it off the Internet in a brown, unmarked
package, it means he’s endured the embarrassment of going into a lingerie department
to actually shop for you. Which indicates that he’s
serious
about you.”

“A sort of baptism by fire,” mused Suzanne. “I can see that.”

A
clump clump
sounded at the back door.

Petra glanced back. “Joey.” Joey Ewald was their sixteen-year-old slacker busboy and
dishwasher.

“Hey, Joey,” said Toni as he strode in dressed, as usual, like a Detroit rapper in
a black puffer coat, low-slung jeans, and clanking chain jewelry.

Joey glanced around the café and gave a little wave. “Hey, guys.”

“You’re just in time,” said Suzanne. “Any minute now we’re going to be invaded by
hordes of customers who want tea, coffee, and afternoon dessert.”

“Uh, okay,” said Joey, unplugging one of his ubiquitous earbuds and fiddling with
his iPod. Then he peered at them shyly. “Are you guys okay? I mean, I heard about
what happened out back the other night…”

“We’re just fine,” Suzanne said hastily.

“That’s right,” chimed in Petra. “Sheriff Doogie is taking care of things.”