Authors: Laura Childs
So... maybe Mayor
Mobley was involved in Peebler’s
murder after all. But... and this was a big but... had
Mo
bley
been that greedy and nervous about winning a small-
town election to protect his
self-interests? Could Mobley
have shot Peebler because the handwriting on the wall pre
dicted he was going to
get booted out of office?
Of
course he could have shot Peebler,
Suzanne decided.
Mobley is a conniving
weasel capable of almost anything.
Okay,
hold everything. What about Deputy Halpern?
Had the deputy been about to get
on top of the mayor about
something, but Mobley struck a preemptive blow? Had
Mobley lured Halpern out into the middle of nowhere and
shot him? Or simply
followed Halpern when he was on
patrol?
Maybe.
Possibly. Though that theory was predicated on
the fact that Wilbur had figured
something out.
Suzanne glanced at
Doogie, wondering if she should
voice her suspicions. On the other hand, she knew she was
conjuring up some fairly wild notions that she re
ally couldn’t prove. And she
surely didn’t want to burden Doogie any more than he already was. So ... what
to do?
Maybe,
like industrial-strength coffee grounds, she should
just let this mess percolate for
a while longer?
For now, yes. Yes, I
will.
Doogie
was mumbling something as he garnered up his
hat and slid off his stool.
“What?’
Suzanne shook her head. “Sorry.”
‘Talk to you later,”
said Doogie, giving her a kind of
half salute.
“Count on it,”
responded Suzanne. She tracked him to the door, watched Doogie through the
front window as he
hefted himself into his cruiser. “Well, that’s just ducky,”
she muttered out loud,
irony tingeing her voice.
Then the front door
banged open and a tall man caromed
in. Head bobbing atop his stalk like neck, Gene
Gandle, the
Bugle’s
persistent and insanely intrepid reporter, made a
beeline for her.
“Suzanne,
we gotta talk,” he gasped. “A double mur
der!” Gene’s eyes danced crazily.
“This is big time stuff!”
“Kindred
has its very own serial killer!” exclaimed Gene,
practically bursting
with warped civic pride.
Suzanne wasted no time
in lambasting the reporter who
sat at her counter. “Shush, Gene, you don’t know that for
a fact!”
“But we might,” Gene
taunted back.
“No way,” said
Suzanne. “Highly doubtful.”
“Then a double
murder,” said Gene, gleefully.
Suzanne shook her
head like a disapproving school
teacher. “A double murder is when they’re related.”
“Who says they’re not?”
asked Gene.
He had her there.
Obviously, she wasn’t the only person
in Kindred who’d made a leap to that conclusion.
Probably, weird old Freddy, the bartender down at Schmitt’s Bar, had
come up with the same idea.
Suzanne grabbed an
order pad and a pencil. “You here
for lunch?” she asked.
“Sure,” responded
Gene, “I’ll take anything on the menu
as long as you’re willing to open up to the
press.”
“You’re not press,
Gene,” said Suzanne. “You write
human interest stories on church suppers, bingo nights,
and
the
occasional frost warning. And you peddle advertising
on the side.”
“It’s still press.”
Now Gene’s voice carried a petulant
tone.
“Whatever,”
said Suzanne, “I’m still not going to blab
any details to you.”
Gene
gave her a sly look. “You will if you want custom
ers to keep coming back to the
Cackleberry Club.”
“Excuse me,” said
Suzanne, leaning toward him, “but do
I detect a threat in your words? Or, worse yet,
would you
be
trying to
blackmail
me with some sort of wild expose?”
“Draw your own
conclusions,” said Gene.
Suzanne let loose on
him. “If you
dare
to implicate the Cackleberry Club in any way, I’ll
call up Laura Benchley
and have her deep-six your story in a heartbeat.” Laura
Benchley was the
editor of the
Bugle
and a friend of Su
zanne’s. “And maybe even get
your precious press card
pulled.”
“What about freedom of
the press?” whined Gene.
“What about placing an
order?” snapped Suzanne.
“Are
you ignoring Gene?” asked Toni. She stood at the
counter, her back to
the cafe, assembling a sandwich for a
take-out order. Roast beef, cheddar cheese, slices
of Vida
lia
onion, and mustard. With a fat, juicy slice of heirloom
tomato for good measure.
“You got
that right,” said Suzanne. “I figure if we don’t
take Gene’s order he’ll
eventually slither away.”
“Sounds like a plan,”
said Toni.
“Gene threatened to
write some fear mongering story
about the Cackleberry Club,” said Suzanne.
“That so?” said Toni.
“No wonder he was trying to inter
view a couple of customers.”
“Rats. Did they talk
to him?”
Toni snorted. “Are you
kidding? They were too busy snarfing up omelets. I kind of hate to admit it,
but Petra’s
shrimp omelets
have been a big hit”
“Glad to hear it,”
said Suzanne. She glanced at the clock
above a shelf cluttered with
ceramic chickens. Big red-
and-black roosters, little yellow chicks, and white
chickens
were
all gathered together, watching over the place like a
kind of Greek chorus of poultry.
Except they never, ha-ha,
made
a peep.
Toni followed Suzanne’s
eyes. “Getting toward lunch-
time.”
“Yeah,” said Suzanne,
digging in her apron pocket for
the
menu Petra had scrawled for her.
“You gonna put up the
menu or you want me to?”
“I’ll do it,” said
Suzanne.
“I’ll
finish this sandwich, then go insult Gene,” said
Toni.
“Bash him good,” said
Suzanne.
Toni grinned. “He’ll
feel like a piñata by the time I’m
done with him.”
“Chicken
a la king,” Suzanne murmured to herself. She
listed that at the top of the
blackboard menu, then added
a grilled sandwich of smoked turkey, brie cheese, green
apple, and
watercress. She grabbed a piece of green chalk,
drew a big soup bowl with steam
rising off it, then scrawled
creamy broccoli soup. At the bottom of the chalkboard
she
used
orange chalk to draw a pumpkin and printed pumpkin
roll cake. Suzanne wrote $2.99,
then wiped it off with her
hand and changed the price to $3.99. The difference be
tween making a living
and making a profit was a fine line
indeed, she decided.
Suzanne stepped back,
pleased. The Cackleberry Club
wasn’t offering an extensive menu today. Then again,
they
were
hosting the Quilt Trail Tea at two o’clock. So their
kitchen could only prep and
serve so much in any given
day.
Petra did have her limits.
“Gene took off,” said
Toni, whipping by with a tray that
held two bowls of molten hot broccoli soup.
“Excellent,” said
Suzanne. “Nice work.”
They did their
tag-team thing then, taking orders, hus
tling them out to customers,
fending off any probing ques
tions about the two murders. By one o’clock, things had
slowed down to a dull
roar and Suzanne was able to dash
into the Book Nook.
In honor of today’s
Quilt Trail Tea, Suzanne laid out one
of Petra’s basket pattern quilts on a round
wooden table, then arranged a display of teapots, books about tea, and
books about quilting.
When she was finished, she stuffed
her arrangement, then ran into her office and
grabbed a
white
ceramic crock filled with stems of bright red bitter
sweet. She added that to the
table along with a stack of
Quilt Trail brochures. There, now everything looked cozy
and
cute, a real tribute to the Quilt Trail and a lovely au
tumn in Logan County.
Except,
of course, for the fact that her Quilt Trail experi
ence had been fraught with terror.
Hopefully, Doogie was
keeping a lid on things and too
many details weren’t being revealed. Then the Quilt Trail
could go
on as planned and hopefully draw hundreds of visitors who’d be charmed by both
the landmarks and the
picturesque
drive.
Suzanne put a hand to
her cheek, thinking. Maybe...
check
the Knitting Nest, too?
She rushed in, found
two women sitting in chairs,
working away. That was cool. In fact, it was the whole
philosophy behind the
Cackleberry Club. Create a warm,
welcoming environment where women could spend an
hour or two. Or three or four.
Suzanne bustled
around the Knitting Nest and arranged
baskets of knitting needles, tossed a few more
skeins of or
ganic wool yarn into a giant wooden bowl, stacked pre-cut
quilt squares as well
as the ubiquitous jelly rolls.
Okay, good, she
decided, then dashed back out into the
cafe.
Where she ran
smack-dab into Joey Ewald, their skateboarding busboy. Who, today of all days,
was dressed like
a gangbanger!
“Joey,” said Suzanne,
in an almost but not quite accusa
tory voice, “I almost didn’t recognize you!”
Joey, a skinny
sixteen-year-old with a mop of dark
hair and dark, almond shaped eyes, grinned
fiendishly. He pointed an index finger and scanned down his baggy, out
landish outfit. “Cool, huh?” he asked.
“Oh my gosh,” breathed
Suzanne, taking a real look at him. Joey’s pants were so big and baggy they
sagged half
way down his hips, revealing not one but two expanses of
colorful underwear. A
belt cinched tightly around Joey’s
hips kept his faded denim pants from slipping
down around
his Air Jordan-clad feet. His orange shirt was oversized as
well and embroidered
with the words
LA. County Jail.
His
Chicago Bulls cap was turned backward.
Petra
chose that moment to stroll out of the kitchen,
bearing a large wicker basket.
She opened her mouth,
closed it, then opened it again. Finally she managed to
ask,
“Is that your Halloween
outfit?’
“Yo, Miz
R, it’s my gang outfit,” Joey answered in a
serious tone.
“There’s
a gang in Kindred?” Suzanne asked with a fair
amount of skepticism.
Joey shook his head,
mournfully. “Naw, but the mall
over in Jessup carries this stuff. With the money I earn
today I’m gonna buy a gold
chain to wear around my
neck.” He looked
far more pleased than if he’d said he was
going to plunk it in a savings
account.
“A necklace?” asked
Petra.
“Necklaces
are for girls,” said Joey. “You wouldn’t catch
Fifty Cent wearing a necklace.
Man goes for
the
bling.”
“Fifty
Cent?” asked Petra, like she thought it might be a newly minted coin. A cousin
to the Sacagaweas.
“Young
man,” said Suzanne, “you’re not going to earn
anything, Fifty Cent or fifty
bucks, unless you change your
clothes.”
“Oh man,” said Joey,
disappointed. “Do I have to?”
“There’s
a health code regulation,” said Suzanne, mak
ing it up as she went along, “that
prohibits restaurant work
ers from showing their underwear.” She glanced at Toni,
who was spreading
white linen tablecloths across all the tables. Her pink bra peeped out from her
tight-fitting red
cowboy
shirt. ‘Toni,” Suzanne hissed.