Stake & Eggs (6 page)

“So awful,” said Suzanne, shaking her head. “Such a shame.”

“Of course it is,” said Gandle. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re all wondering,” said Suzanne, careful as ever.

Gandle frowned. “Tell me something I don’t know, Suzanne. I’m working on a story here.
A
major
story. And rumor has it you were the one who found Busacker’s body.”

Suzanne hesitated. “Who told you that?”

Gandle arranged his face in a mirthless grin. He knew he’d struck a nerve. But he
didn’t answer her directly.

“Sheriff Doogie’s working the case,” put in Suzanne, “so he’s the one you should be
talking to.”

“Already did,” said Gandle. “What I’m after are a few fresh details.” He gave a look
that was halfway between a smile and a sneer, then took another sip of soup. “It’s
the little details that make a story, Suzanne. And the reason people read the
Bugle
.”

“Really? I thought they read it because it’s the only newspaper in town.”

“I’m just trying to do my job, Suzanne.”

“Really, Gene…” She hated that he was trying to mousetrap her.

Gene leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Did you see Busacker’s body?”

“Yes, I did, and I fervently wish I hadn’t,” said Suzanne.

“I heard he’d been…decapitated?”

Suzanne sighed. “You heard right.”

Gene’s eyes took on a predatory glow. “What did it look like?”

“Shame on you, Gene.”

“If I worked for the
New York Times
, you’d be bending my ear about this,” said Gandle, pouting. “Or if I was a reporter
for CNN.”

“Look,” said Suzanne, “the investigation is underway and I’m sure Doogie and his team
will have it figured out in a matter of days.” She swallowed hard. “And we’ll all
be relieved once it’s over.”

“One more question,” said Gandle.

Suzanne puckered her mouth in exasperation.

“Do you think it was an accident, or murder?” asked Gandle. His eyes carried a nasty
gleam, and Suzanne was pretty sure he knew darn well that a wire had been stretched
deliberately. Pointing to…calculated murder.

Suzanne chose to deflect his question. “That’s the burning question of the day, isn’t
it? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have lunch orders to deliver!”

S
PEEDING
from table to table, Suzanne did her best to quiet whatever rumors snaked their way
to her as people paused between bites of food. For the most part, she was successful.

Until Charlie Steiner walked in. Steiner was a taciturn farmer who lived a hardscrabble
life running a small dairy farm. His mood was generally dour, and he rarely had a
kind word for anyone. Still, Suzanne grabbed a menu and greeted him with a big smile.
“Table for one?”

Steiner gave a surly nod and clumped after her. Once he sat down, he planted his elbows
on the table, creaked back in his chair, and declared, “Don’t need no menu, just bring
me a grilled cheese and coffee.”

“Right away,” said Suzanne. She hustled off, hoping Steiner’s dismal mood didn’t spread
to her other customers.

And like a self-fulfilling prophecy, Suzanne’s fears came true. Because when she circled
back some ten minutes later,
Steiner was munching on his grilled cheese, lecturing to everyone at the surrounding
tables.

“That Busacker was one mean son of a gun,” said Steiner. “Tough and hard-hearted.
I missed a couple payments on my farm, and Busacker started legal action to take it
away from me!” His face was a thundercloud. “Can you believe that? A hard-working,
tax-paying veteran like me!”

“Charlie,” said Suzanne, sidling over to him, “take it easy, okay?”

Steiner seemed not to even notice Suzanne. “But justice has been duly meted out. Ben
Busacker is
dead.
”

“Charlie, please,” said Suzanne, a little more firmness in her voice. “Dial it back.”

Steiner tilted his head back, raised both arms, and turned his palms outward, as if
receiving a blessing. “The man spit poison and greed, and now he’s received his comeuppance
from the Almighty!”

A man at a neighboring table, a volunteer fireman named Mike, said, “Charlie, you
sound like you’re happy that Ben Busacker is dead.”

A slow, wolfine grin crept across Steiner’s craggy face. “I’m not
un
happy, I can tell you that.”

Back in the kitchen, Suzanne quickly related to Toni and Petra what she’d overheard.

Petra sucked in her breath. “Steiner’s actually celebrating the fact that Busacker’s
dead? Good lord. What’s his heart made of? Stone?”

“It’s his pebble brain that worries me,” said Toni. “I mean, don’t you think Steiner
sounds entirely too happy about this whole Busacker thing?”

Petra was the first one to make the frightening leap. “You don’t think Steiner could
have
engineered
something, do you?” she asked. They all looked at each other.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Toni.

“He did seem awfully angry at being foreclosed on,” said Suzanne, thoughtfully. “I
suppose he could have…”

Petra gave a shudder. “Please don’t tell me the killer is
sitting out there eating one of our grilled-cheese sandwiches.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” said Suzanne. “We just made a crazy assumption.”

“Still,” said Toni, “we should probably tell Doogie about this guy’s rant. After all,
what do we really know about Charlie Steiner anyway? Is he a decent guy or is he an
angry jerk?”

“Angry jerk,” said Petra.

“Jerk doesn’t necessarily translate to killer,” said Suzanne. At the same time, she
knew that Doogie had a right to know about this. It might be secondhand information,
but it was still information. And Gene Gandle, who was still sitting at the counter
jotting notes, had surely heard everything Charlie Steiner had blurted out. So Gandle
was probably planning to stuff a heavy dose of that vitriol into whatever sausage
of a story he was cooking up for Thursday’s edition of the
Bugle
. In which case…the whole town would know.

“I love it when you do those crisscross strips on top,” said Toni. Petra was putting
the finishing touches on a couple of apple pies. “They let all the hot, cinnamony
apple goo bubble up through the top.”

“That would be the general idea,” said Petra. She stuck her hand into a calico oven
mitt, opened the door, pulled out a pan of muffins, and slipped in her pies.

As sweet baking aromas filled the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne suddenly thought to herself,
Walter, how I wish you were here.
His memory suddenly flooded back to her, sharp as cut glass. Where was Walter when
she needed him? Where was he at any time of day or night, for that matter? Hopefully
in a better place, encircled in the arms of the Lord.

Sometimes it didn’t make sense to her that Walter had been dead for almost a year,
a victim of pancreatic cancer.
Or that Donny, Petra’s husband, was lying in a nursing home suffering from Alzheimer’s.
Yet she knew they had to carry on, that they both
were
carrying on.

Living was a special gift. Unfortunately, it often took a tragedy to make one fully
realize that.

Giving a quick glance around the café, Suzanne noted that everything seemed under
control. Gandle had finally left, Steiner had departed, a handful of customers were
finishing up. Excellent.

Crossing the floor, Suzanne slipped into the adjacent Book Nook. It was a cozy place
where sagging wooden shelves were packed floor-to-ceiling with books. Where a threadbare
Oriental carpet covered the floor, and two cushy overstuffed velvet chairs served
as the perfect place to plop down and sit a spell.

UPS had delivered three cartons of books this morning, and Suzanne eagerly ripped
them open. It was fun to unearth new treasures, to shelve them in the various sections
they’d designated, such as as Mystery, Romance, Fiction, Culinary, History, and Children’s.
Surrounded by books, Suzanne always experienced a great sense of calm. The books helped
her to feel centered, to grab a tiny bit of Zen.

She reached into the box, pulled out a book titled
Tea & Tidbits.
She smiled, turned the book over to read the back cover, then was suddenly aware
of hurried, heavy footsteps heading toward her.

Suzanne glanced up just as Reed Ducovny, her neighbor from across the way, came roaring
in. A shade past sixty and tough as an old boot, Ducovny stomped into the Book Nook.
His normally placid face was scrunched into an unhappy grimace, and his mouth worked
soundlessly.

“Reed,” said Suzanne, suddenly concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Ducovny reached up and pulled a purple stocking cap off his head, revealing a tousle
of gray hair. “Sheriff Doogie!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Sheriff Doogie says I’m
a suspect!”

S
UZANNE
was shocked beyond belief. And not just by the raw outrage that poured out of Reed
Ducovny, a man who cared more about corn and soybeans than nearly anything else in
his life. No, what really shocked her was the fact that a steady stream of people
with incredibly urgent problems kept finding their way to the peaceful, cozy Cackleberry
Club.

Was it just her imagination, or had the Cackleberry Club become the eye of the storm
in less time than it took to say “homemade rhubarb pie topped with French vanilla
ice cream”?

And Suzanne felt that she herself was at the center of the vortex—either being dumbstruck
by a grisly killing, or dishing out food and advice, or dealing with the chaos and
craziness that swirled around her.

A quick recount, thought Suzanne: First Ben Busacker was killed. Then Doogie dove
in and started munching his way through the investigation. Then Mr. Fancy Pants Banker
with the Gold Watch showed up, followed by Gene Gandle, slavering for juicy details
to stick in his newspaper exposé, and then Charlie Steiner, who’d vented like the
second eruption of Mount St. Helens.

Wow
, Suzanne thought.
No wonder my head is spinning like a top.

She half wished she could rewind the hands of time and start the week over again.
Could we just kick it off with a garden-variety winter snowstorm and end with tasty
tea
and scones? Wouldn’t that be loverly? And while we’re at it, let’s toss in a couple
of plump muffins, a delicious cup of Kona coffee, and some friends, good books, beautiful
yarns, and other nice-and-easy things that tend not to upset any apple carts. Or lop
off any heads.

As Suzanne studied the man standing in front of her, exasperation and intensity dripping
from his face, she suddenly realized how very personally Ducovny was taking all of
this.

“Why would Sheriff Doogie think you’re a suspect?” she finally asked. “Why you? That
doesn’t make any sense.” She shook her head. “There has to be a mistake.”

Ducovny shook his head. “Sheriff says the wire that killed Ben Busacker was the same
kind of wire that’s in my fences! And now that he knows this, he says he can’t ignore
it. He says it puts me under suspicion. That it’s…what did he call it? Damning evidence.”

But Suzanne, who owned the land and only leased it to Ducovny, was already thinking,
Actually, that would mean it’s the same kind of wire from
my
fences.

Ducovny paced back and forth, practically in hysterics now. “Suzanne,” he pleaded,
“you’ve got to help me!”

“Me?” said Suzanne.
Why do I have to help him? If the wire’s really from my fence, I might have to help
me
!

“You’ve got a big in with Doogie,” said Ducovny. “He likes you. He trusts you. You’ve
known each other for a long time.”

“I don’t really have an in with him,” Suzanne said slowly, mulling over everything
Ducovny had just lobbed her way. Why would wire samples suddenly put Ducovny under
suspicion, she wondered. Weren’t there miles of wire out there that just happened
to be the same make and model, so to speak? Everyone around the county could have
the same kind of wire, for all she knew. This part of the state was filled with great
stretches of farms, fields, and pastures that were wired off and divided by ownership
rights, land
surveys, and whatnot. And all of that wire had to come from somewhere, and it probably
all came from the same factory. Exactly what had Doogie and his deputy discovered
when it came to this particular wire?

Suzanne realized she needed some inside information, courtesy of Sheriff Doogie. And
quick.

Yes, Doogie was a friend of sorts. But Suzanne also figured the real reason he hung
around the Cackleberry Club was because she never charged him for all the platefuls
of food he snarfed down on a regular basis. Did the man ever pay for anything? No.
Did she ask him to pay? No. And neither did any other local café.

Talk about a job with excellent benefits. No wonder some folks kept running for office.
And not just in Kindred, Suzanne thought, but across the entire country!

Still, it was comforting to have Doogie’s bulky, familiar presence around the Cackleberry
Club, just in case some crazy tweaker or 7-Eleven rip-off artist got it in his fool
head to try to grab fistfuls of money from their cash register. After all, a Saturday
night special worked just as well on a busy Monday morning.

“I came to you, Suzanne,” Ducovny continued, “because you’re smart. Last fall, you
figured out who killed that guy Peebler. And I know you worked on a couple of other
crimes before that, too. Seems to me you’ve been investigating murders ever since
you opened this place.”

“I got lucky with the Peebler case,” said Suzanne.

“No,” said Ducovny, “you got good.” He strode a few paces, whirled around, and knocked
a couple of books off the shelf.
Blue’s Clues
went tumbling. So did two new thrillers by David Baldacci and John Sandford that
Suzanne had just unpacked a few minutes ago.

“Calm down,” said Suzanne, bending to pick up the books. “This is just a case of simple
misunderstanding. I’m sure we can get everything straightened out.”