Stake & Eggs (4 page)

“Doogie called me,” said Sam, glancing around.

Suzanne was delighted to see him, of course. It was all she could do to resist rushing
up to him and planting a great big smackeroo on his lips. Fact was, she’d been keeping
company with the good doctor for the past couple of months and was feeling more and
more romantically inclined. But she still wasn’t comprehending why Doogie had called
him.

“Did you forget?” Sam asked her. He spread his arms wide. And, as if it were the most
natural thing in the word, Suzanne stepped into his embrace. “It’s my turn to play
duly appointed county coroner.”

Suzanne pulled back suddenly and made a face. “Oh.”

“Exactly my reaction,” Sam said, his mouth twitching up at the corners. “But hey.”
He gave her a chaste peck on the top of the head, then gazed around the room and became
all business. “I understand there’s been a snowmobile fatality?”

“That’s right,” said Doogie. “Ben Busacker.”

Sam did a kind of double take. “The new bank president?”

Doogie gestured with his thumb. “Out back. Happened maybe fifty minutes ago.”

“Suzanne found him,” said Toni.

A look of professional concern crossed Sam’s face. “You’re sure he wasn’t still breathing?”

“Trust me,” said Suzanne. “He wasn’t.”

T
UESDAY
was Confetti Fried Eggs day at the Cackleberry Club. Fresh eggs sizzled in enormous
cast-iron frying pans, French toast crisped on the grill, and the mingled aromas of
Kona coffee, spicy sausage, and fresh-squeezed orange juice filled the small kitchen
where Petra reigned supreme.

Mornings at the café were always about eggs, of course. Scrambled eggs, eggs balderdash,
eggs in a basket, eggs mornay, fried eggs, and Scotch eggs. Eggs were the specialty
at the Cackleberry Club, and they did it amazingly well. Which also meant they drew
a tremendous number of customers each morning, including folks who snarfed their breakfast
down fast, then enjoyed lingering over their coffee. It was especially so this morning.

“We’re getting hammered,” said Suzanne, as she pushed through the swinging door into
the kitchen.

“Because the storm rolled past,” said Petra, as she cracked eggs, one-handed, into
a large speckled bowl. “And the roads are clear.”

“The snowplows must have been working all night,” said Toni. She was dealing out white
plates like a deck of cards, setting up for Petra’s cheesy scrambled eggs that were
shot through with bits of sizzled onion, red pepper, green pepper, and diced zucchini.

“And the one thing that’s on everyone’s lips,” said Suzanne, giving a nod toward the
café, “is the shocker here yesterday.”

“A terrible accident,” said Petra.

“That was no accident,” snapped Suzanne. “That was murder!”

Petra half turned, a look of unhappiness on her broad face. “Are you sure about that,
honey?”

“There was a wire,” said Suzanne. “Someone deliberately placed it there. And remember,
Ben’s head was—”

“Okay, okay,” said Petra, busily checking her order slips. “I get the picture.”

“Trust me,” said Suzanne, “you don’t want that picture engraved on your brain.” She’d
had a fitful night, filled with restless, haunting dreams about being chased through
a hostile, wintery landscape and stumbling over strange body parts.

“My big question,” said Toni, “is will the Fire and Ice Festival go on?”

“It has to,” said Petra. “What else is there to do in January when there’s six feet
of snow covering everything?”

“For starters, there’s a funeral to plan,” said Suzanne, thinking of Ben Busacker.
“And a bereaved wife who might need a little comfort and sympathy.” The three women
pondered that sober reality for a moment. Suzanne continued, “Between the murder,
digging out from the blizzard, and anything else connected to this…the festivities
could get derailed. Or at least postponed.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” said Toni. “I’ve got my heart set on finding the treasure medallion
and winning the grand prize.”

“There’s a prize?” said Petra.

“Three thousand smackeroos,” said Toni.

“Seriously?” said Petra. “Last year the winner got a fifty-dollar gift certificate
for Schmitt’s Bar and a sack of high-oil-content sunflower seeds from Chalmers’ Feed
Store.”

“Well, thank goodness it’s been seriously upgraded this year,” said Toni. “And when
I get my hands on that pot of cash, I’m gonna buy myself a pair of baby blue cowboy
boots to match my eyes.”

“Even if they’re custom-made,” said Petra, “you’ll still have a pile of money left
over.”

“That’s what I figure,” said Toni as she placed garnishes of sliced strawberries on
each of the plates. “So what I’m gonna do is hire a big-shot attorney and finally
get my divorce from Junior.”

“Really?” said Petra.

“Finally?” said Suzanne.

Toni had married Junior Garrett a couple of years ago. After a super-quickie courtship,
the two love birds had flitted off to Las Vegas and gotten married at the Elvis Wedding
Chapel. Unfortunately, theirs was a union that had been fueled by too much Jack Daniel’s,
groping over the gearshift of a Ford F-150, and lacy red lingerie. Just weeks after
their till-death-do-us-part vows, it had all begun to unravel. Of course, the real
pièce de résistance for Toni had been the moment she’d discovered Junior’s penchant
for bar waitresses who favored cheap angora sweaters and hot pink extensions in their
hair.

Petra looked concerned. “I hate to say this, honey, because I love you, but your marriage
was snakebit from the very beginning, from the moment the plane touched down on the
tarmac on your return trip from Vegas. You should’ve just bitten the bullet and marched
directly to the courthouse for an annulment.”

“I realize that now,” said Toni, a tad wistfully. “Our marriage careened from one
natural disaster to another. In fact, once Junior and I moved in together, he was
basically roadkill.” Toni wrinkled her nose. “He just laid around in his underwear
until he started to smell.”

“Ugh,” said Suzanne, feeling sympathy for Toni. “That’s another image we don’t need
engraved on our brains. So on that happy note…”

“I’ll plate these orders so Toni can run them out,” said Petra.

*  *  *

“W
HAT
’s that fantastic aroma emanating from your oven?” asked Suzanne.

Petra ginned. “That’s my lemon cornbread.”

“Something new and fabulous you’re trying?”

“Something new, anyway,” said Petra. “But remember the words of Yoda, my fave Jedi
Knight: ‘Do or do not. There is no try.’ ”

“Seems kind of weird to quote the teachings of a Star Wars character,” said Suzanne.

“Well, I am quite religious, too,” said Petra, who was a pillar as well as a volunteer
at the Methodist church.

“Your church is having a booth at the ice-fishing contest this year?” asked Suzanne.

“That’s the plan,” said Petra. “We’re going to sell chili and mini tacos.”

“I hope you’re not going to use the chili as filling for the tacos.”

“That was proposed by others,” said Petra, “and vetoed by me. Honestly, I’m a chili
purist. It’s a meal all its own, way too good to just cram inside a taco shell. It’s
got dignity. It needs space. I mean…all those aromatic spices need to
breathe
.”

Suzanne smiled and shook her head. “Whatever filling gets stuffed inside those tacos,
we’re all going to be crazy busy this week. You’ve got Stitch and Bitch on Wednesday
night, then the Crystal Tea and fashion show here on Thursday…”

“And Sunday we host the Winter Blaze party,” said Petra. “That’s gonna be a biggie.
We really need to do some planning!”

“Plus there are umpteen other events that are supposed to go on all over town,” said
Suzanne, “like the parade, the community play, the ice-carving contest, the fishing
contest, and dog sled races. I wonder what Baxter and Scruff will think of those?”
she added, referring to the dog sled races. “Maybe I’ll bring the little demons to
the sled races and see if they want to give it a go.”

“I sure hope last night’s murder doesn’t derail all this good old-fashioned fun we’ve
got planned,” said Petra.

“Hey, guys,” called Toni, as she leaned in through the pass-through. “Doogie’s here.”

“Maybe we’ll get an update directly from the horse’s mouth,” said Suzanne.

“Or the horse’s something else,” Petra murmured as Suzanne slid out the door.

S
HERIFF
Doogie was hunkered at the marble counter, twirling a spoon in a cup of coffee that
Toni had just poured for him. Deputy Eddie Driscoll, a young, lanky newcomer to the
force, accompanied him. Standing a few feet behind Doogie, like some kind of armed
guard, Eddie was on alert, seemingly waiting for orders.

“Morning, Sheriff,” said Suzanne. She was aware that pretty much every face in the
Cackleberry Club was now turned toward them. Conversation was muted, too; the better
to eavesdrop.

Doogie nodded at Suzanne, then said, “Driscoll, you head out back and snap those pictures
like we talked about.”

“Yes sir,” said Driscoll, eager to be put to work, no doubt dreaming about single-handedly
cracking his first big case.

“Got some sticky rolls here,” Suzanne said to Doogie.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, swiveling on his stool to watch her.

Suzanne grabbed a caramel roll strewn with pecans from the glass pie saver, put it
on a plate, then added three pats of butter. Doogie was a big butter eater. No concerns
about cholesterol for him, though truth be told he probably
should
have been concerned.

“Got anything cooking?” Suzanne asked, as she slid the plate in front of him.

Doogie dropped his voice to a conspiratorial low. “Not much yet. I’m hearing mostly
idle speculation and innuendo.” He slapped a whole pat of butter on his sweet roll
and took a bite. “Turns out Ben Busacker wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity around Kindred.”

“That’s what I heard,” said Suzanne.

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing concrete,” said Suzanne. “Just a lot of rumblings about him foreclosing on
properties and calling in loans and things.”

Toni stopped by to throw in her two cents’ worth. “Busacker did away with free checking
accounts, too. Now you gotta keep at least fifty bucks in your account at all times
or you get smacked with a six-dollar fee every time you go under.” She looked exasperated.
“Who can do that? I mean, keep fifty bucks in your account twenty-four/seven? Especially
when you gotta pay bills! At Busacker’s rates, I’ll have to take out a loan just to
maintain my bank account.”

“Nobody’s going to murder a banker over a checking account,” said Suzanne.

“No,” said Doogie, “it had to be something bigger.”

“You find a motive,” said Suzanne, “you find the killer.”

Doogie aimed an index finger at her. “That’d be the general plan. And the first place
I’m gonna start looking is at the bank. Try to find out which customers were unhappy
or involved in some sort of dispute.”

“So you think Busacker’s murder was bank-related and not some personal vendetta?”
asked Suzanne.

“I do,” said Doogie.

“Well, people reelected you, Sheriff, because they believe in you,” she said. “Because
they trust your judgment.”

Toni leaned in to them. “Have you heard anything about the Fire and Ice Festival?
I mean, they’re not going to cancel it, are they? I’m really counting on finding that
treasure medallion.”

“Turn on the radio,” said Doogie, motioning with a big paw. “Last I heard, Mayor Mobley
was gonna do a live broadcast this morning. Give a little law-and-order pep talk to
the citizenry, then let everybody know if Fire and Ice is still on.”

Petra’s voice floated out from the kitchen. “Of course he is. The man loves to hear
himself talk. I’m surprised he doesn’t lobby for his own radio talk show.” She snorted.
“
Mobley in the Morning
or some crappy, self-serving title like that.”

Suzanne reached up to the shelf where flocks of yellow, black, and orange ceramic
chickens were clustered, and turned on the radio, an old brown plastic Emerson clock
radio that looked like it had been around since the fifties.

There was a burst of static, then Paula Patterson’s voice came through. She was the
genial host of the morning
Friends and Neighbors
show on WLGN.

“What’s she sayin’? What’s she sayin’?” asked Toni.

Doogie put a finger to his mouth. “Sssh.”

Suddenly, Mayor Mobley’s voice brayed out over the radio. “There’s been some talk,
Paula, that the town fathers of Kindred were going to cancel our Fire and Ice Festival.
But that’s just not the case. Fire and Ice will go on as planned, and it will be bigger
and better than ever. That much I can guarantee!”

As Toni broke into a wide smile and gave a thumbs-up, they heard Paula say, “Mayor
Mobley, what can you tell us about the manhunt that’s currently underway?”

Suzanne glanced at Doogie and lifted her brows. “That would be you,” she whispered.

“Will the perpetrator be caught?” asked Paula. “Are the people of Kindred in any danger?”

“Absolutely not,” said Mobley. “In fact, they couldn’t be safer. Our law enforcement
people are following up on several leads right now.”

“Are you?” Suzanne asked in a low voice.

Doogie lifted a shoulder. “Deputy Driscoll is snappin’ pictures.”

Mayor Mobley continued in a boastful tone. “I can say, with complete and utter confidence,
that the perpetrator is definitely a person from outside our community and that we
expect an arrest in a matter of days.”

“Those are some big promises he’s making live on air,” said Suzanne, shaking her head.

“And I’m the one who has to make good on them,” said Doogie. He looked suddenly unhappy.

Then Paula Patterson was talking to her radio audience in her familiar, chatty voice.
“So there you have it, folks. Fire and Ice will kick off tomorrow as planned. And
we’ll be announcing the very first treasure hunt clue right here…first thing tomorrow
morning. So be sure to tune in!”