Authors: Laura Childs
“Mobley must have been seriously worried
about hav
ing Peebler as his opponent,”
observed Suzanne. “Since he
hired Allan Sharp to be his flunky.”
Toni lifted her chin and indicated Mobley. “He’s
not nervous anymore,” she said in a cryptic tone.
Suzanne stared across
the cafe at Mobley. He was smil
ing,
swaggering, and gobbling up any and all attention he could garner.
No, he’s
not worried anymore,
she thought. And a nasty ping echoed in the back
recess of her brain.
Not one bit nervous about the competition, because
there is no competition.
As Toni went back to her bagel and Suzanne
measured
out spoonfuls of English breakfast
tea into a cheery paisley teapot, Mayor Mobley steamrolled his way to the
counter.
“Hrnhmhm,”
he coughed, in an effort to attract their at
tention.
“Mayor?” said Suzanne,
turning. “Something we can do
for
you?”
“Ladies,” he said,
spreading his legs apart and posturing
like Yosemite Sam, “I wanted to
extend my sincere sym
pathy concerning the terrible events here the other
night.”
Suzanne
almost believed him, until she realized that Mobley’s voice was booming across
the cafe and he was checking the crowd’s reaction via his peripheral vision,
making sure they were
all aware of his Academy Award
worthy
performance.
“Sure
thing, Mayor,” said Suzanne. She’d had an earful of his false sympathy and was
hoping he’d go away.
“Chuck
Peebler was a darn good man,” Mobley contin
ued. “A worthy opponent.”
“Was
being the operative
word,” murmured Suzanne.
“Wouldn’t
you say so?”
Mobley’s eyes suddenly
flashed with rage, then nar
rowed into piggy little slits. “You implying something,
Su
zanne?” His words were an
angry hiss.
“If the
shoe fits,” said Toni, adding her own two cents’
worth.
Expelling a raspy
sound, Mobley spun on his penny
loafers and headed back to the table where Allan Sharp
waited patiently. Mobley sat down, sipped at his coffee,
and a whispered
conversation ensued. Then they both rose
from their chairs and headed for the door.
“Will you look at that?”
exclaimed Toni, sticking her
pencil behind her ear and clamping her hands on her hips
in
defiance. “They left
the check sitting on the table. They’re
skipping out on the tab!”
“Let it
go, Toni,” urged Suzanne. “It’s not worth a con
frontation.”
Toni, not always one
to listen to reason, took a step
out from behind the counter and called after them. “Hey,
Mobley!”
Mobley stopped,
turned, and glanced back at her. If
looks could kill, Toni would be laid out
stone-cold on the
floor.
“Too bad
the Rogaine’s not working!” Toni shouted at
him.
That brought an
onslaught of loud laughter and guffaws
from the two dozen or so customers.
Mayor Mobley turned
bright red and glowered at Toni,
even as Sharp grabbed his elbow and tried to usher him
along.
Toni
flapped a hand and let loose her best Three Stooges
impression. “Nyuk,
nyuk, nyuk.”
After
erasing the breakfast menu, Suzanne doodled a
border of hearts and flowers
around the edge of the black
board, then set about listing the luncheon menu. Petra
had seemingly outdone herself today with her featured deep-
dish chicken pot pie.
Made with chicken, fresh carrots and
peas, and her own creamy gravy, the dish was baked
in its
own
ramekin and arrived golden and bubbly at your table.
The sandwich today was
rosemary grilled chicken. Home-baked rosemary-infused focaccia bread was slath
ered with mayonnaise,
Dijon mustard, and chopped fresh
rosemary. Then a skinless chicken breast, sautéed in
garlic,
pepper,
and olive oil, was snugged between the two thick
slabs of bread.
Vegetarian autumn stew
rounded out their trio of entrees.
A savory dish that combined diced sweet onions,
butternut
squash,
sweet potatoes, carrots, celery, lentils, tomatoes,
and set off with a tangy splash
of apple cider vinegar.
Suzanne was getting
hungry just printing out the spe
cials, let alone inhaling the smells that wafted from
Petra’s
kitchen.
And just as she was
scribbling at the bottom of the
board, rounding out the menu with raspberry chocolate
tart
and
honey walnut cake, Sheriff Doogie came strutting into
tie
restaurant. He nodded as he
brushed past her, heading
straight for the counter. His wide bottom eased onto the
end stool; his elbows hit the counter.
“Coffee?”
Suzanne asked him, sliding behind the counter. He was just the man she wanted
to see.
“Much as you can fit
in one cup,” Doogie told her in a
weary tone. Then he reached for the sugar bowl,
dropped in
one
lump followed by numero two and three.
Picking up on Doogie’s
need for a sugar fix, Suzanne grabbed one of the apple turnovers from the
pastry case, slid it onto a plate, and held it in front of Doogie. “Apple
turnover?” she asked.
“You bet,” said
Doogie, gazing at it hungrily.
Suzanne set it in
front of him, like she was awarding
first prize for a correct answer.
Doogie managed a
quick bite, then asked, “Is everybody
still talking about it?”
Suzanne knew the
it
Doogie was referring to wasn’t the
special of the day.
“I’m pretty sure the
entire town is still gossiping about
Peebler’s murder,” she told him. “And will be
until the
killer
is apprehended.” Of course they’d jaw and speculate. People were on edge.
Weird, freaky assaults by crossbows
didn’t happen every day.
“Until
I
apprehend him, you mean.”
“You’re
the duly elected sheriff,” Suzanne told him, but
not unkindly.
Doogie took a slurp of
coffee. “Lucky me.”
“Excuse me,” said
Suzanne, looking askance, “but aren’t
you a candidate in this upcoming election, too?
Didn’t you
toss
your modified Smokey Bear hat into the ring some
months back?”
“That I
did,” murmured Doogie. “Though things could
change, you never know.”
“Don’t
talk like that,” she warned him. “You’re a good
sheriff; people here trust you.”
He cocked a rheumy
eye at her. “Do they?”
“Yes,” she said. “Of
course, they do.”
At least I think
they do. But you don’t need me
planting any seeds of doubt.
You‘ve managed to accomplish that all by
yourself.
“Not all
killers get caught, Suzanne,” said Doogie,
looking both detached and
philosophical as he said it. As though he’d taken a step back from the case.
“Not in
this instance,” said Suzanne. “Not when
you’re
on the case.”
Doogie managed a half
smile as he took another bite of
turnover.
Leaning
forward, Suzanne asked in a low voice, “So did
you talk to Mike O’Dell?”
“I did,”
said Doogie, chewing. “As well as his amusing
spouse, Sasha.”
“And?”
“O’Dell’s a taciturn
guy. Then again, you might be in
a perpetually cranky mood if your wife was a stripper and
brought home more money than
you did.”
“Gives new meaning to the
phrase, ‘bringing home the
bacon,’”
said Suzanne.
Doogie shrugged. “I
guess strippers earn big bucks.”
“I
think Sasha’s more of an exotic
dancer,” said Suzanne.
Doogie raised an
eyebrow, looking askance. “There’s a
difference?”
“A slight
technicality,” said Suzanne, wondering why she was even offering an
explanation. “I don’t think the
women at Hoobly’s actually remove their clothing.”
“So a lingerie show,”
said Doogie. He sounded just this
side of interested.
But
Suzanne wasn’t buying it. “Don’t tell me you’ve
never been out there!” She snorted.
“Only on official
business,” said Doogie.
“Which just proves
that Hoobly’s
is
a shady place. All
kinds of things probably go on out there.”
“It’s not exactly the
Knitting Nest.” Doogie sighed.
“Getting back to
Peebler’s murder,” said Suzanne. “I’m
assuming you’re ready to cross Jane Buckley off
your
list?”
Doogie pursed his lips
and shook his head. “Nobody’s
completely
in the clear yet.”
“Surely Jane told you
about the argument she had with
Peebler,” said Suzanne, frustration evident in her voice.
“A
fairly
nonsensical accusation on Peebler’s part about steal
ing antiques from his aunt’s house?”
Doogie chewed slowly
and stared at her.
Suzanne continued. “Peebler
accused Jane of trying to convince his aunt to donate a few items to the
Darlington
College art museum.”
“So she says.”
“Jane wouldn’t lie,”
said Suzanne. “She’s not like that. Peebler’s rant was just that—a rant. He
didn’t even know
what items
were missing.”
“And now Peebler’s
gone, so we can’t ask him,” said
Doogie.
Suzanne stared at him.
“Dead men tell no tales?”
Doogie’s brow
furrowed. “They do, it’s just a little
tougher to pry it out of them.”
* * *
Lunch
at the Cackleberry Club was a roaring success.
Suzanne and Toni worked the cafe
like a professional tag
team, understanding each others needs before they were
even articulated.
Coffee was poured, plates delivered then
whisked away, checks magically
appeared. Petra, mean
while, was basically on lockdown in the kitchen,
preparing
order
after order and shoving them out the pass-through
with breathtaking speed.
When everyone had a
sandwich, soup, or dessert in front
of them, Suzanne took a well-deserved breather.
But Toni spotted a potential problem. Or maybe a business opportu
nity, depending on the
way you looked at it.
“We’ve
got a ton of people wandering around in the
Book Nook,” she told Suzanne.
“Then that’s where I’m
headed,” said Suzanne, pulling her long, black Parisian waiter’s apron over her
head and
stashing it behind
the counter.
“Call me if you need
help,” said Toni.
“Call me
if you
need
help,” replied Suzanne.
Secretly, of course,
Suzanne was always thrilled to
spend time in the Book Nook. Reading was her passion,
and she loved nothing
more than unpacking a new box
of books, fingering their uncracked spines, and arranging
them on
the narrow wooden shelves. There was something
satisfying about the fact that so
many lovely thoughts and
spellbinding plots were contained between those covers.
How, she wondered,
could anyone ever abandon a lovely,
highly tactile paper book for a mechanical e-book?
At
one-fifteen, Petra emerged from the kitchen carrying
a steaming cup of tea. She gazed
about the cafe with satis
faction,
then delivered the tea to Suzanne.
“Thought you could use
this,” said Petra.
“Bless you,” said
Suzanne, taking a quick sip.
“To me taking a break
means escaping into the far-off flavors of tea from around the world,” said
Petra. “Thai
land, India,
Ceylon, or good old China.”
“Where
are we flying off to today?” asked Suzanne,
playing along.
“Nepal,”
said Petra. “By way of organic Kenchajanga
green tea.”