Stake & Eggs (16 page)

Mobley rocked back on his heels. “Fact is, I don’t understand for a minute why this
case isn’t wrapped up yet.”

“Maybe because it’s more complicated than you think?”

Mobley’s mean little eyes flashed up and down her. “When was the last time he was
out at your place?”

Suzanne set her jaw firmly. “Why don’t you ask Sheriff Doogie?”

“I’m just lookin’ out for the town, Suzanne,” said Mobley. “For our citizenry.”

“Understood,” said Suzanne. “But Sheriff Doogie was recently reelected to office.
Which sends a pretty strong message that the people of Kindred are behind him one
hundred percent. They believe in Doogie and have faith that he’ll solve Ben Busacker’s
murder.”

“Is that so?” said Mobley.

“And I have faith in Doogie, too,” said Suzanne, as she backed away from Mobley.

Mobley sucked air through his front teeth and let loose a harsh laugh. “I’m glad somebody
does.”

A blast of warm, toasty air hit Suzanne as she stepped through the back door of the
Cackleberry Club and into the kitchen.

“Are we ever glad to see you,” trilled Toni. “We’re busy, busy, busy.”

Petra cocked a sympathetic eye at her, and asked, “How was the funeral?”

“Sad,” said Suzanne. “And not all that well attended.”

“Probably because Busacker wasn’t all that well liked,” said Toni.

“Still,” said Petra, as she flipped sizzling strips of bacon and stirred a bubbling
pan of cheese sauce, “you always hope your final send-off won’t be a mammoth disappointment.”

“At least the flowers were lovely,” said Suzanne. “And Reverend Strait’s words were
quite uplifting.”

“Still sounds like a bummer,” said Toni. “Hey, did I ever tell you guys about my uncle
Otto’s funeral? About when they did a twenty-one-gun salute and released a flock of
white doves?”

“That sounds almost presidential,” said Petra, hefting her frying pan off the stove.

“Not really,” said Toni. “Problem was, they released the doves just before the rifle
salute.”

Petra hesitated, her spatula midair. “Oh no.”

Toni shook her head. “Poor little birds, never had a chance.”

Suzanne grabbed an apron and tied it around her waist, anxious to move the subject
away from funerals. “How can I help? Looks like you have some orders to deliver.”

“Give me one minute,” said Petra, as she continued plating. She dished out French
toast, sausage and eggs, and their Thursday special, Eggs Mornay. “Okay.” She grabbed
a dozen order slips from her overhead rack and matched them up against the plates.
“Now you ladies can hustle these breakfasts out to our customers.”

Suzanne and Toni were busy then, delivering breakfasts, pouring refills of coffee,
and ringing up to-go orders at the cash register.

“We’re hoppin’ and boppin’ like a sweet sixteen party,” said Toni as she brushed past
Suzanne.

“Does it make you feel young again?” grinned Suzanne.

“Cookie, I
always
feel young.”

Back in the kitchen, Petra was pink-faced and hustling. “Suzanne,” she said, “can
you grate a couple cups of cheese while I whip up another pan of Eggs Mornay?”

“I’m on it,” said Suzanne. She grabbed the grater and a big block of cheddar and started
whittling away. Petra, meanwhile, rough-chopped a bunch of fresh parsley, even as
she grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred madly at the stove. Then she plopped her eggs
into a shallow baking dish, sprinkled on a mound of bread crumbs, ladled on her cheese
sauce, and popped the whole thing into the oven.

Peering through the pass-through, the comforting clink of coffee cups and silverware—plus
murmured conversation, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter—reassured Suzanne
that all was well in the café.

And once the third and final pan of Eggs Mornay had emerged from the oven, all golden
brown and bubbling, and the last group of breakfast customers had been served, the
women were able to take a welcome break.

“Did you forget to listen for your treasure-hunt clue on the radio?” Suzanne asked
Toni.

Toni grabbed her copy of the
Bugle
and thumped two
fingers against it. “Don’t need to. The clue’s posted in here today.” She raised her
penciled brows and pursed her lips. “Along with Gene Gandle’s big scoop of the century.”

“How bad is it?” asked Suzanne, thinking it was unfortunate that a story about Busacker’s
murder had to come out the same day as his funeral.

“Yellow journalism,” said Toni.

“More like purple prose,” Petra snorted.

“Whatever the color,” said Suzanne, “are you telling me it’s a hatchet job?” She’d
almost let herself forget that Gene Gandle had taken copious notes during Charlie
Steiner’s rant. “What does Gene’s headline say?”

“You ain’t gonna like it,” said Toni.

“Read it to me anyway,” said Suzanne. “I’ll try to get a grip.”

“Huh-umh.”
Toni cleared her throat. “It says, ‘Banker Found Dead; Mystery Still Unsolved!’ ”

“That’s not so bad,” said Suzanne. Fact was, it was all true.

“Unfortunately,” said Toni, “the story takes a nosedive from there. In fact, the words
‘decapitated’ and ‘Cackleberry Club’ both appear in the opening sentence.”

“Maybe you better read the whole thing to me,” said Suzanne, alarmed now.

“ ‘Kindred officials,’ ” began Toni, “ ‘have launched an urgent investigation into
the death of local banker Ben Busacker, whose decapitated body was found during Monday’s
snowstorm behind the Cackleberry Club café on Route 65.’ ”

“Holy Coupe de Ville,” said Suzanne. “What do you think that’s going to do to business?”

“It gets worse,” said Toni. “ ‘A suspicious and tautly stretched wire was also found
nearby. Authorities believe there’s a possibility that the wire had been deliberately
strung to harm Busacker, the president of Kindred State Bank.’ ” Toni stopped reading
and looked up. “Heard enough?”

“Yes,” said Petra.

“No,” said Suzanne.

Toni passed the paper to Suzanne. “Here, kiddo. Maybe you should read it for yourself.”

Suzanne scanned the story. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t terrible, either. Gandle
mentioned how Busacker was new in town, that he left behind his wife, Claudia, and
then went on to suggest that Busacker hadn’t been all that well liked because of his
“take-no-prisoners approach to local banking.”

Again, that was all true, she told herself.

But it was the next paragraph that made Suzanne gasp. “Oh no!”

“I thought that part might stand you on your ear,” Toni muttered.

Gandle’s story went on to detail that “Ms. Suzanne Dietz, owner of the Cackleberry
Club, was the first to discover the body in the snow.” And that she’d told the
Bugle
she “fervently wished she hadn’t seen it.”

“I wish Gene hadn’t mentioned me,” said Suzanne.

“Keep reading,” said Toni.

“Oh my lord,” said Suzanne.

“What?” said Petra.

“Gandle’s gone so far as to name suspects,” said Suzanne. “Listen to this: ‘The office
of Sheriff Roy Doogie says it questioned several individuals who may have possible
knowledge concerning the unfortunate incident. Recently, suspicion has fallen on two
Logan County farmers, Reed Ducovny and Charlie Steiner.’ ”

“Holy hairballs,” said Petra. “Can he say that?”

“He just did,” said Suzanne.

“I mean,” said Petra, “is it even
legal
to mention names like that?”

“What do you think’s gonna happen?” asked Toni in a rush of words. “You think Doogie’s
gonna arrest Gene Gandle for overeager journalism and throw him in the clink? Or slap
him on the wrist?” She shook her head. “Never happen.”

“No,” said Suzanne. “Doogie will just seethe silently and hope the story blows over.”

“While he continues to plod along,” said Toni.

“Doogie’s doing the best he can,” said Suzanne. She glanced at the newspaper again.
“But this entire story makes me queasy.”

“Do a quick affirmation,” said Petra. “Tell yourself, ‘After each deep, cleansing
breath, I will release all negative thoughts and sadness.’ Then, with each follow-up
breath, think, ‘I accept positive thoughts and happiness.’ ”

Suzanne closed her eyes and inhaled a lungful of air. Then she blew it out in a long
stream. “Better,” she said after a moment.

Petra leaned over and gave her friend a quick hug. “You’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay.”

“You’re probably right,” said Suzanne, “even if you do sound like a self-help paperback.”
She brushed back strands of silver blond hair, and said to Toni, “Let’s get back to
something lighter. What about the treasure clue?”

Toni snatched up the
Bugle
and flipped to an inside page. She scanned a few columns, running a bright red manicured
finger along. “Here it is!”

She read it aloud to Suzanne and Petra:

Toni looked up. “Gaze into the ice? What on earth does that mean? There’s ice all
over this blasted town. I could be searching for months! Right up until the spring
thaw!”

“At least this clue’s a little more specific than the first one,” said Suzanne.

“No, it’s not. I still have no idea where to start,” Toni sputtered.

“You were so excited about the treasure hunt,” said Petra, “and now you’ve turned
all mopey.”

“Duh…yeah,” said Toni. “Because the clues are gibberish.” She nibbled at her lower
lip with her front teeth. “Maybe…you guys could kind of throw in with me?”

“What do you mean?” asked Suzanne.

“You sound like an old prospector asking for a grub stake,” chuckled Petra.

“I kind of am,” said Toni. She scratched her head vigorously. “I think I need serious
help.”

“Here’s the thing,” said Suzanne. “With clues this vague, nobody else is going have
an aha moment, either.”

“You make a good point,” said Toni.

“So let’s wait until we have three clues under our belt,” said Suzanne. “Then we’ll
put our collective heads together and go on a treasure hunt.”

“That’s the spirit!” said Toni. “All for one and one for all!”

“Like the three Mouseketeers,” said Petra.

Suzanne and Toni looked at her sharply.

“You said Mouseketeers,” said Toni.

“Did not,” said Petra, fussing at her stove.

“Did, too,” said Toni. She was bending over, laughing, practically in stitches now.

“I think you did,” said Suzanne, giggling. She waved her hands in the air. “Wait a
minute, wait a minute, I almost forgot to tell you guys.”

“What?” said Petra, happy to change the subject.

“We had a night visitor,” said Suzanne.

“When?” asked Toni. “Oh…you mean last night?”

“Yes, last night,” said Suzanne. “An intruder of sorts.”

“What?” said Toni and Petra in unison.

Suzanne told them all about Colby. How he’d come skulking in, looking for food. Aided,
of course, by Joey’s key.

“He nearly scared me right out of my skin,” said Suzanne.

“I can imagine,” said Petra. “After…” Her eyes rolled toward the back window. “You
know.”

“We sure do,” said Toni. She turned to Suzanne. “So, then what happened?”

“After I beat him senseless with a club,” said Suzanne, “I drove Colby over to the
Law Enforcement Center.” She paused. “Where the little ragamuffin promptly gave them
the slip.”

“No way!” cried Toni.

“Way,” said Suzanne. “In fact, it was under Doogie’s eagle-eyed watch that he got
away.”

“Your tax dollars at work,” said Toni, dusting her hands together.

“So what happens now?” asked Petra. “Are they going to try and track him down?”

“Doogie said he put the word out to all his deputies,” said Suzanne, “to be on the
watch for Colby. But who knows? They’re busy chasing down leads on the Busacker murder.”

“More like chasing their tails,” said Toni.

“But what about the kid?” asked Petra. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“No idea,” said Suzanne. “But just in case he comes skulking back here, keep an eye
out. Colby admitted to me that he’d been bunking in the barn across the way, so there’s
a possibility he could show up again.” She paused. “Yeah, I have a feeling Colby might
be back.”
And let’s just hope, that if he does, he’s not dealing drugs like Doogie suggested.

S
UZANNE
was stacking sugar donuts in the pie saver, piling them up like a mini load of sugar-coated
inner tubes, when Junior came stomping in. He was dressed in his pegged jeans, motorcycle
boots, and studded leather jacket. No gloves or hat.

“Will you look at that,” Toni remarked. “The man can’t stay away from me. I must be
totally irresistible.”

Junior was stomping his feet and blowing warm air on
his red, chapped hands. “Cold out there!” he exclaimed, when he saw Suzanne and Toni
looking at him.

“Big surprise,” said Toni. “It’s January.”

“Why is it so hard to get a kind word around here?” asked Junior. “All I want’s a
little lunch.”

“How come you’re not using your handy, dandy car cooker?” asked Suzanne.

“I am,” said Junior. “I’m making goulash, but my noodles ain’t cooked yet. I got another
sixty miles to go.”

“Maybe we better fix you a sandwich,” said Toni. “Just in case.”

“Or soup,” said Suzanne. Then to Toni, under her breath, “Whichever’s faster. We don’t
want Junior lingering here too long.”

“Good point,” was Toni’s quick reply. Her cowboy boots sounded like castanets as she
hustled across the café floor to seat Junior. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” she told
him, “but you gotta hurry up and eat. Get your sorry butt out of here before our real
customers show up.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d really piled on the meat and cheese,” said Junior, easing
himself down at a table. “I need all the calories I can get.”