Stake & Eggs (5 page)

“Hot dog!” blurted Toni. “I can almost feel those sweet dollar bills spilling through
my fingers.”

Suzanne reached up and snapped off the radio. “You know what they say…”

“I know,” said Toni, “don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.” She grinned.
“But, hey, this is the Cackleberry Club. So that counts for something!” Her grin faded
as the front door flew open and a large, solid-looking man walked in and planted himself
in the middle of the café. “Who’s
that?”

Suzanne and Doogie swiveled their heads to look.

The man, who had a beefy red face and the jowls of a Saint Bernard, gave the room
a cursory gaze. Then his eyes seemed to settle on Doogie. He strode forcefully across
the room, peeling off his overcoat as he went. Dressed in a three-piece city suit,
the man was a distinct contrast to the good old boys (and gals) who hunkered at tables
in the Cackleberry Club, enjoying their breakfasts and morning coffee.

“I was told I’d find you here,” the man said to Doogie without preamble.

Doogie didn’t bat an eye. “Then I guess you found me.”

T
HE
man gave a cursory smile and stuck out a hand, which was smooth and manicured. A
gold watch gleamed from his wrist. “Ed Rapson. I’m regional manager for Mills City
Banks.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Doogie, shaking hands. He looked the stranger up and down
with hooded eyes, then leaned back on his stool and said, “Sorry about your man getting
killed.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” said Rapson. He glanced at Suzanne, a cool,
appraising look that clearly conveyed
This is a private matter.
Please go away.

She did. Suzanne had an impression of steely, super-confident efficiency as she sidled
down to the end of the counter, where she busied herself with the coffeemaker, dumping
in a fresh scoop of French roast and humming tunelessly to herself. But, of course,
she could still hear the conversation just fine.

Ed Rapson launched into a little song and dance about the importance of justice being
served and of the killer being quickly apprehended. Doogie, the consummate professional,
kept a neutral look on his face and assured Rapson that he was running a tight, professional
investigation.

When Rapson asked to be kept in the loop, Doogie did a bit of verbal tap dancing,
but basically remained noncommittal. Then Rapson nattered on some more about resolving
this incident quickly before any more customers got spooked. And how critical it was
to keep his bank running
smoothly, as he was sure the sheriff understood, without any glitches to gum up the
works. It was your basic yadda-yadda-yadda conversation during which Doogie’s eyes
seemed to glaze over slightly.

The whole thing ended with the two men shaking hands. Then the front door opened again
and Hamilton Wick, also know as Ham, stuck his head in. Ham was a pale, mousy fellow
in his late forties, who’d been the long-time vice president and loan officer at the
bank.

“You almost done here?” asked Ham. He shrugged and looked apologetic. “It’s getting
cold out there.” He tugged at the collar of his light brown parka.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Rapson. He struggled back into his overcoat and retreated out the
door with Wick. Watching them go, Suzanne realized Rapson had never even asked her
for a cup of coffee. But neither had she offered him one. Or anything else.

Suzanne drifted back to Doogie. “Is Rapson heading back to the home office?” She was
pretty sure the home office was somewhere over in Sioux Falls, some hundred and fifty
miles away.

“Says he’s gonna stick around,” said Doogie.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Depends how much trouble he manages to stir up while he’s here,” said Doogie.

“You don’t look very happy,” observed Suzanne.

“Ah,” said Doogie, “Rapson’s one of those guys who says he wants to have a conversation
with you, but what he really does is talk at you and deliver a few thinly veiled threats.”

“Threats about what?” asked Suzanne. “Closing the bank? Taking his business elsewhere?”

“That and how he’s had reassurances from Mayor Mobley about how quickly law enforcement
will resolve this case.”

“That’s not good,” said Suzanne. Mayor Mobley, bless his wretched little black heart,
was said to have his sticky
little fingers in quite a few deals around town. Particularly when it involved new
businesses or real estate developers who wanted to gallop in and throw up an ugly
cinder block building or a row of tract homes devoid of color or character.

“The other thing,” said Doogie, “is that Rapson pretty much enjoyed talking down to
me. He treated me like I had tufts of straw sticking out of my collar and shirtsleeves.
As far as I can tell, though, he and I put our pants on the same way.”

“Sheriff! Sheriff!” Deputy Driscoll suddenly appeared before them, his eyes wide and
his face bright pink, displaying a lethal combination of cold and excitement. He’d
popped through the kitchen and obviously had major news.

“What’s up?” asked Doogie.

“You need to come outside and take a look at something this minute!” urged Driscoll.

Doogie eased off his stool. “See you later.”

“Keep us posted, okay?” said Suzanne.

But Doogie was already grabbing his parka and striding out the back door.

S
UZANNE
turned her attention back to the café, making the rounds of her customers with a
pot of fresh-perked coffee in one hand and a pot of freshly brewed Darjeeling tea
in the other. She slipped between tables with a smile and a cheerful good-morning,
all the while wondering what Driscoll had been so hot and bothered about.

When her curiosity finally got the best of her, Suzanne went into the kitchen and
pushed her nose against the window, trying to see out into the frozen landscape. But
Petra had more pressing business at hand.

“Suzanne, would you please deliver this three-cheese omelet to table twelve?” Petra
asked. “Oh, and this rasher of bacon goes to table five.” She glanced around. “Where
the heck is Toni? She’s supposed to be on top of these orders.”

“She’s working the cash register right now,” said Suzanne. She glanced over her shoulder.
“What do you imagine Deputy Driscoll was so fired up about?”

“No idea,” said Petra. “But the fact that he was so worked up scares me to death.”

“Doogie’s on this,” said Suzanne. “And I’m positive we’re not in any real danger.”
But she said it with more confidence than she actually felt. A life had been lost
out here behind the Cackleberry Club, and in the most gruesome manner. Who was responsible?
And why had it happened? Did someone actually hate Ben Busacker enough to want him
dead? Were there any other intended targets? And who in creation would ever think
of using a stretched wire to kill someone? She shuddered slightly.

Petra, rattling pans, said, “It still feels like we’re in danger.”

Toni popped back in the kitchen. “Feels like what?”

“In danger,” Petra said again. “It creeps me out to think that somebody set such a
nasty trap back in our woods. And that they would go to all that trouble in the middle
of a major snowstorm. And that, ultimately, their trap snared poor Ben Busacker!”

Toni glanced at Suzanne. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard a banker referred to as poor.
Especially not this one.”

“You know what I mean, honey,” said Petra, shaking her head. “This whole thing’s got
me on edge.”

“Time for a group hug?” said Toni.

“Couldn’t hurt,” said Suzanne.

The three friends embraced, grabbing comfort, strength, and support from one another.
Then Petra reached for the Red Wing crock that sat on the shelf. It held a bunch of
affirmations the women had stuck in there over time. “A little inspiration couldn’t
hurt, either,” said Petra. She extended the crock to Toni. “You go first.”

Toni drew a piece of paper from the crock. She unfolded it and read, “ ‘Winter, spring,
summer, or fall, all you’ve got to do is call. I’ll be there, yes I will.’ ”

“James Taylor! How perfect,” said Suzanne.

“Actually, Carole King
wrote
that song,” put in Toni. “She’s the genius behind those words and music. Remember
Tapestry
? Oh lord, I loved that album. But Taylor’s really the one who made the song a big
hit.”

“I love that song no matter who wrote it or sang it,” said Suzanne. “Okay, your turn,”
she said to Petra.

Petra fished around and drew out a yellow Post-it note. “It says, ‘I pay my bills
with love, and I know abundance flows freely through me.’ ”

“Good one,” said Toni.

“Now you,” said Petra, shoving the crock toward Suzanne.

Suzanne drew a crumpled piece of paper and read it out loud. “This one says, ‘The
wise person listens to everyone. But the wiser person takes her own advice.’ ” She
hesitated. “Hmm.”

M
UCH
to Suzanne’s consternation, Doogie never came back into the café. She figured he’d
either found a tantalizing clue outside and had dashed off to follow up on it, or
he’d come up with a big fat zero and was too sheepish to stomp back in and admit it.

Actually
, Suzanne thought,
scratch that
. Sheriff Doogie wasn’t sheepish about
anything.

Either way, it was time to gear up for lunch.

Petra had planned a dazzling luncheon menu, the ideas swirling around in her head
for the past couple of hours just like the mass of snowflakes that had piled up outside.
Suzanne could smell the aroma of bacon frying in the kitchen as she went to scrawl
the day’s specials on the chalkboard.

Petra’s soup of the day was aptly called Veggie Supreme. It was a hearty vegetable
broth crammed with bits of celery, carrots, zucchini, broccoli, and yellow squash,
plus a decadent dash of cream just in case the whole thing sounded a little too healthy
and righteous for its own good.
The soup was one of Suzanne’s favorites, and on a cold winter’s day like today there
was no way it could miss.

She wrote it on the board in yellow chalk and drew a cartoon bowl of soup.

“Okay, how about the salad?” Suzanne called to Petra.

“I’m doing my Egg Salad Eggstravaganza,” Petra said. She meant her tasty showstopper
of an egg salad, seasoned with delicious pieces of pimento-stuffed olives and bacon,
as well as a healthy dab of Dijon mustard.

Suzanne jotted that down in pink chalk, then added the rest of the day’s lunch servings
as Petra rattled them off: Grilled Cheese Louise. Carrot quiche. Blueberry Pie with
Whipped Cream to Die For.

Just as a group of early lunch customers filed in, Suzanne stepped away from the chalkboard
so everyone could see it.

As Suzanne dusted her hands on her red checkered apron and took a deep breath, Gene
Gandle, the
Bugle
’s persistent and insanely intrepid reporter, came charging into the café. Slat-thin,
head bobbing atop his stalk-like neck, Gene Gandle looked skinny even in an over-stuffed
olive drab parka. Shaking himself like a wet dog, Gandle stomped snow from his boots
and peeled off his gloves.

“Will wonders never cease,” said Suzanne, in a low voice to the others. “Look what
the Chinook winds just blew in.”

Toni swung her gaze to the front door. “Of course, the news guy is here. The Cackleberry
Club is the place to be. Everybody knows that. We’re Grand Central Terminal right
now. Who wouldn’t want to be here on a day like today?”

“I just wish fewer murderers wanted to be here,” murmured Suzanne.

“Hi there,” said Gandle. He was perky and faux friendly as he hunched onto a seat
at the counter in front of Suzanne.

“Hi, Gene. What can I get for you?” Suzanne asked. Gene took his job as a reporter
as seriously as Woodward and Bernstein. He bordered on pesky, veering into obnoxious.
“Maybe a cup of coffee to start?”

“Sounds good,” said Gandle.

“And we’ve got some great veggie soup today,” she told him. “A real favorite and good
for you, too.” She knew Gandle liked to eat healthy. “Care to try a bowl?”

“Sure,” said Gandle, “why not?”

As he settled himself at the counter, Suzanne delivered his coffee, then ladled out
a steaming bowl of soup. There was a distinct buzz in the café now, as a few customers
glanced over from their tables. Word had obviously spread fast about Ben Busacker’s
death, and people were naturally curious. Maybe they thought Suzanne would share some
inside information with Gandle. Or maybe they figured Gandle would dig up some new
dirt.

Suzanne could only imagine the questions her customers must be asking one another.
She tried to stay focused as she placed a cinnamon muffin on a plate and delivered
that to Gandle, too.

It soon became clear, however, that Gandle wasn’t there for coffee, soup, or anything
remotely culinary. He took a quick, perfunctory swallow of coffee, then pulled out
a notebook, a pen, and a small digital recorder, arranging them all on the counter.
With a deft move, he switched on the recording device. “Mind if I ask a few questions?”

Suzanne could see the glow of the tiny red light, indicating the machine was grinding
away in record mode. “Sure,” she said, working hard to remain neutral. “Go right ahead.
Ask away.” She managed a smile. “You oughta dig into that soup, though, while it’s
still hot.”

Gandle obeyed her, taking a quick sip and then wiping his mouth. “That’s mighty tasty,”
he said, taking a few more hurried spoonfuls.

Suzanne began to relax. Maybe this was going to be easier than she thought.

Gandle nibbled at his muffin and then, still chewing, looked at her and said, “So?”

“So?” said Suzanne in return.

“Yesterday. Talk to me about what happened.”

“The storm? It came barreling in before we knew what hit us. Pretty much a complete
whiteout. We barely got out. The plows hadn’t come through yet, and we…”

“Cut the crap, Suzanne. I know a man died out there last night,” said Gandle directly.
“Ben Busacker, the bank president. Some sort of snowmobile accident during the storm.
What do you know about it?”