Stake & Eggs (15 page)

As Suzanne tried to tame some flyaway strands of blond hair, hair that definitely
warranted a touch up at Root 66, she wondered if anyone ever found peace after their
beloved had been mowed down in cold blood. And by a killer who still hadn’t been identified
or apprehended! To know that the killer was still lingering in their midst, and might
even attend the funeral today, was beyond creepy.

That’s when it hit her: After today, she’d have something in common with Claudia Busacker.
After today, they’d both have buried their husbands.

On that unhappy note, Suzanne snapped off the bedroom light and headed downstairs.
She had to feed the dogs, shoo them out into the backyard, and try to gulp down a
piece of toast. Then she’d head over to Hope Church. She figured she’d run into Doogie
there and that he had probably rounded up the elusive Colby by now. She also held
out hope that Doogie had been blessed with some sort of brainstorm concerning Busacker’s
killer. Because the trail of the killer was getting as cold as a Minnesota lake in
the dead of winter. Time was passing, and people were getting impatient.
Namely me,
she thought.

As she drove over to the church, a hazy sun shone down but did nothing to dispel the
chill or mantle of ice that covered the small town of Kindred. On Main Street, the
shoulder-to-shoulder yellow brick buildings seemed to hunch together as smoke plumed
from their chimneys and furnaces worked overtime. The trees in Founder’s Park were
frosted with ice, and as she pumped her brakes at an intersection and began a slow,
sickening skid, Suzanne realized the roads were just as slick!

Luckily, her tires were good steel-belted radials, and in a matter of minutes, she’d
navigated her way to Hope Church.

Pushing open one of the double oak doors, Suzanne stepped inside one of the oldest
houses of worship in Logan County. Thin January sunlight streamed through tall stained
glass windows filling the church with warmth and a kaleidoscope of colorful dancing
beams. Massive hand-carved wooden arches spanned the width of the white plaster ceiling,
giving a sense of majesty.

An usher, wearing a dark suit that smelled faintly of mothballs, handed a memorial
program to Suzanne. She opened it quickly and scanned it, almost wondering if there’d
be an advertisement inside for Mills City Banks. Thank goodness, there wasn’t.

Spotting Sheriff Doogie in the middle of the church, Suzanne tiptoed down a side aisle
to join him in his pew. The church was sparse on mourners but abundant with flowers.
Elegant sprays of blue hydrangeas, delphiniums, and white roses were banked on either
side of the altar. Clearly, the Mills City Banks people had opened the corporate checkbook
and gone all out for Busacker’s big send-off.

“Good morning,” she said as she slipped in next to Doogie.

Doogie swiveled his big head. “Morning,” he said. His sparse hair was freshly combed,
and his khaki uniform looked pressed and spiffier than usual. And did she detect a
hint of Drakkar Noir aftershave? Could be.

Suzanne scooted closer to Doogie and whispered, “Did you find the boy? Colby?”

He blinked. “Not yet.”

“Well, I hope you at least pried some information out of him last night.”

“Not much chance,” said Doogie. “Kid slipped into his boogie shoes and was gone.”

“Then have you talked to Joey Ewald? My busboy? He might be able to shed some light
on Colby’s whereabouts. They’re supposedly friends.”

Doogie sighed heavily. “I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

She looked at him. “We’re talking about an underage boy—”

Doogie beetled his brows. “Look, Suzanne, I only got so many deputies and so many
hours in the day.”

“—an underage boy who wiggled out of your grasp,” she added. “At the Law Enforcement
Center, for crying out loud.”

“Job number one right now is to catch Busacker’s killer,” said Doogie without emotion.
“Not chase down some random kid.”

“Not random—a runaway,” said Suzanne.

“You don’t know that for sure,” said Doogie. “He might live next town over, in Jessup.
Just here to visit friends or hang out.”

“He
told
me he was a runaway,” said Suzanne, as a burst of organ notes erupted from the choir
loft above them. “He said he’d been sacking out in my barn.” Any more words were drowned
out by Agnes Bennet, the longtime organist, who was now pumping away like the Phantom
of the Opera. The notes of “Amazing Grace” filled the church with a rich, sumptuous
sound, underlining the gravity of the situation.

Suzanne dug in her handbag and pulled out her cell phone. She scrolled through her
contacts list, found Joey’s phone number, and wrote it down on the back of an old
grocery list.

“Here,” she said briskly, handing the paper to Doogie. “Call Joey. And if he stonewalls,
I want to know. I’m positive he wants to keep his job at the Cackleberry Club, so
I can always lean on him.”

“If you ask me,” said Doogie, “that kid Colby was probably hanging around selling
drugs.”

“He didn’t look like any kind of dope dealer to me,” said Suzanne, “just a scared
runaway kid.”

“Hmph.” Doogie gave an offhand shrug.

“You always think the worst of people,” she said.

“That’s because I deal with the worst people,” snipped Doogie.

Which pretty much rubbed Suzanne the wrong way.

“And another thing,” she whispered. “I want you to lay off Ducovny.” She had an urge
to shake her finger under Doogie’s nose, but managed to contain herself, since they
were in church. “The man had absolutely no motive to kill Ben Busacker. You know it,
and I know it.”

Doogie shifted on the hard bench and crossed his meaty arms. “Oh yes, he did.”

“What are you talking about?” Suzanne was about ready to spit a mouthful of tacks.

“I did some more checking this morning,” said Doogie, not bothering to look at her.
“And found out Ducovny was turned down for a bank loan.” He paused. “By none other
than Ben Busacker.”

An icicle of fear jabbed at Suzanne’s heart. “A loan for what?” she stammered.

Now Doogie turned his flat gray eyes on her. “Apparently, he wanted to make an offer
on your farm.”

“To buy it?” Her question came out in a high-pitched squeak. She quickly ducked her
head, hoping no one was listening.

“Yup. That’s what I’m saying.”

Suzanne stared straight ahead at the altar, where dozens of votive candles flickered
wildly. And wondered: Did Ducovny really have an axe to grind? Had he set up some
sort of strange trap for Busacker? Maybe not to kill him, but to grab his attention?
So he could make a final plea for a loan?

She knew it could have happened that way, but fervently hoped it hadn’t.

“I still think Ducovny’s innocent,” Suzanne muttered as a dramatic change in organ
music signaled the start of the funeral service.

One by one and two by two, the mourners stood up and turned their attention toward
the back of the church. And the sad procession began.

Reverend Strait, with his fine head of silver gray hair and decorous black suit, led
the way. Directly behind him, a shiny gunmetal gray coffin, topped with a spray of
white roses and Asiatic lilies, clacked along on a squeaky-wheeled casket carriage,
escorted by six pallbearers.

Suzanne strained to see who these plain-faced, black-suited men were, and decided
they were either Mills City Banks employees who’d been strong-armed by Ed Rapson,
or characters direct from central casting. Or both.

Then Claudia Busacker’s pale face came into view. Dressed in a black skirt suit and
a demure white silk blouse, Claudia, the distraught widow, clung to the arm of George
Draper, owner of Driesden and Draper Funeral Home. Claudia’s hair was meticulously
done, and her makeup was flawless beneath her short black veil. But she seemed incredibly
frail and vulnerable as she took baby steps down the center aisle, pausing every few
seconds. At one point she leaned heavily against George Draper. Draper, who was tall,
gangly, and slightly stooped, was amazingly solicitous, gazing at Claudia as though
she were a Dresden figurine.

Is she even going to make it?
Suzanne wondered. Draper seemed to be half supporting her, half escorting her. But
Claudia eventually made it to the front of the church, where she dramatically pressed
her lips to the casket, then took her seat.

Reverend Strait blessed the casket and said the opening prayers as everyone bowed
their heads. After the prayers came the eulogies, of course. And first up was Ed Rapson.
For someone usually so slick and glib, Rapson seemed stiff and uncomfortable during
his speech.

“He was loved by all,” Rapson reeled off without emotion. “He was a friend to everyone.
A model employee. We shall miss his hard work and steady collegiality.”

Suzanne wrinkled her nose. His words, dashed off like so many empty platitudes, sounded
like something out of a handbook on what
not
to say at a funeral.

When it was his turn to speak, Reverend Strait, by
contrast, was engaging and heartfelt. In warm, friendly tones, he spoke of Busacker’s
devotion to his wife and Claudia’s devotion to him, despite several career moves that
took them across multiple states. He looked kindly at Claudia, and said, “This was
a decent man.” He spoke of how Busacker had struggled to put down roots yet again,
in middle age, and how he had served the residents of Kindred as best he could.

Listening to the melodic hymns that followed, Suzanne glanced at the program again,
then twisted slightly in her seat. And was surprised to see quite a few more people
sitting in the back of the church.

Interestingly enough, Suzanne spotted Charlie Steiner and his wife, Elise.

Lester Drummond was also among the assembled, staring straight ahead, an impassive
look on his craggy face.

Could one of those men have wanted Busacker dead? Suzanne wondered. Steiner was losing
his farm and had aimed his anger like a rapier at the bank.

Drummond, for his part, badly needed a job after losing his prison-warden gig. Could
he have lusted for Busacker’s job and fat salary so much that he would have killed
for it?

Suzanne tried to focus on the service, but her mind kept drifting. Back to the murder,
to the motive. Who else could have wanted to get rid of Ben Busacker?

Her eyes flashed on Ed Rapson, and her reptile brain, the primitive brain, did a slow
Hmm?

What if Rapson really was the killer? The thought had occurred to her before, but
she hadn’t given it serious consideration.

But what if things at the bank had somehow reached crisis stage? What if Busacker
had alienated too many people, or the books weren’t balancing, or there was something
very, very wrong? And whatever that terrible something had been, what if Rapson had
been catapulted over the edge?

Suzanne drew in a sharp breath, causing Doogie to give her a curious sideways glance.

It could have happened that way, she thought. But had it?

How can I find out? How can I know more about circumstances at the bank?

For one thing, she decided, she would talk to Hamilton Wick. Maybe try to draw him
out with a little friendly conversation. Probe and pry a little, but in a concerned
way, so he wouldn’t think she was meddling. Be the business ally he’d been looking
for.

Minutes later, the casket came rolling back down the aisle. Claudia still looked ready
to collapse, while the black-suited pallbearers still looked staid and inscrutable.

After firing a final warning shot at Doogie to stop hassling Ducovny, Suzanne hustled
out the door to find Claudia.

And found her hunched outside, next to the long black hearse. She watched her husband’s
casket being loaded, while George Draper practically stood guard by her side.

“I’m so sorry, Claudia,” said Suzanne. She leaned forward and gave her a hug.

“Thank you, dear. Thank you for coming,” said Claudia, in a thin, brittle voice. Her
eyes were glazed, and she seemed to be operating on autopilot.

“Kind of you,” said George Draper, offering his perfunctory funeral director’s smile.

Suzanne could sense that this day, this whole experience, had taken a terrible toll
on Claudia. She was as frail as a dove with a broken wing.

“I wish there was something I could do,” said Suzanne.

“You’ve been very kind,” said Claudia. She offered a weak smile, then said, “I’m so
sorry to miss your Crystal Tea this afternoon. I was planning to attend, but now…”
She made a vague gesture with her gloved hands.

“If you feel better in a few hours,” said Suzanne, “you really should come anyway.
You’d be among friends, people who care about you.”

“That’s so kind of you,” said Claudia.

Suzanne grasped her hands, then released them. “Really,” she said, moving away, “you’d
be amazingly welcome.”

As Suzanne scurried toward her car, Mayor Mobley emerged from a throng of mourners
to accost her.

“Suzanne,” said the rotund mayor, holding up a finger. “A word?”

Mayor Mobley, who’d managed to squeak by in the last election, was pond scum as far
as Suzanne was concerned. He was greasy, sleazy, and an all-around untrustworthy guy.
He’d honchoed the building of the for-profit prison, promising it would bring jobs
to the town. Now that razor wire monstrosity sat on Kindred’s outskirts, looking dreary
and foreboding.

“What?” Suzanne said sharply. She didn’t care for the pompous Mobley, with his bad
comb-over. To her he represented small-town bureaucracy at its worst.

The mayor scuttled up to her, dressed in dark plaid slacks and a long-sleeve Izod
shirt underneath his too-tight putty brown parka. Beads of perspiration dotted his
pink scalp even in the freezing cold.

“I imagine Sheriff Doogie’s been out at your restaurant investigating?” Mobley belted
out to her.

“He’s probably been all over town,” Suzanne said, diplomatically. She didn’t like
Mobley, and she knew he knew it.