Stake & Eggs (23 page)

Suzanne shook her head. “I still don’t get it. I mean, who would
do
this to Joey? And why? Did he say anything to you?”

“Just says he got jumped from behind.”

“Jeez,” said Suzanne. “He’s just a kid. A pain in the keister sometimes, but basically
a good kid.” Suzanne rubbed the back of her neck, where a throbbing pain seemed to
have settled. “You don’t suppose…”

“What?”

“That Colby had a hand in this. I mean, maybe they had a fight or something?”

“Could have happened,” allowed Sam.

“You know how teenage boys are. They fight tooth and nail over some stupid DVD or
Xbox game or imagined girlfriend.”

Sam’s eyes shifted. He gazed past Suzanne, and muttered, “Doogie.”

“Huh?” She turned her head and saw Doogie lumbering toward them with his trademark
flat-footed walk.

“Just heard about the Ewald kid,” said Doogie.

“You should go talk to him,” said Suzanne. “See if he remembers anything.”

“Kid still awake?” asked Doogie, hitching up his belt.

“For now,” said Sam. “But he’s gonna get drowsy real fast.”

Doogie nodded. “Got a question for you guys. Did either of you see Charlie Steiner
tonight?”

“Sure,” said Suzanne. “He was sitting in Schmitt’s Bar.”

“Hitting the sauce?” said Doogie.

“I guess so,” said Suzanne.
He wasn’t exactly sipping a pink lady.
“He was sitting at the bar all by his lonesome. Why are you asking? Do you think
Charlie…um…attacked Joey?”

“I don’t know,” said Doogie. “I still don’t know what’s going on. But I’ll tell you
one thing: we found the same kind of wire that killed Ben Busacker out at Charlie
Steiner’s place. Strung around his hog pen.”

Suzanne’s eyes widened like Frisbees. “Was a piece cut from the wire? Just like from
Ducovny’s fence?”

Doogie wore his serious face. “Yup.”

“So, now what?” asked Suzanne. “What does it mean?”

“I’ve got to send the wire up to the state BCA,” said Doogie. “The Bureau of Criminal
Apprehension. They’ve got specialized labs and can analyze it more carefully.”

“You really need fancy forensics?” asked Suzanne. “Can’t you just go around to the
local hardware stores and see what kind of wire they’ve sold lately?”

“Already have,” said Doogie.

S
AM
had told Suzanne to drive safely, and the notion worried her. He hadn’t just tossed
it off as an afterthought, a good-bye thought. In light of Joey’s getting his skull
bashed in, Sam had really meant it. And so she navigated the streets of Kindred with
a watchful eye until she pulled safely into her garage. Then it was a matter of a
skip and a dash until
she was in her back door and the dogs were swirling around her, tails wagging and
begging for treats.

“Treats for everyone,” Suzanne told them. She pulled a handful of Liva Lova treats
from a can while she put her teakettle on the stove. Five minutes later, the dogs
were still licking their lips and Suzanne was sipping a nice steaming cup of jasmine
tea, very conducive to relaxation and promoting sleep.

With her mug in her hand, she strolled through her living room, thought about catching
a few minutes of
Letterman,
then decided against it. She walked out into the hallway, feeling slightly at odds
and ends, and glanced into Walter’s office.

Walter.

She strolled into his office slowly and looked around. It was exactly the same as
when Walter had still been alive. Nice wooden desk, file cabinets, bookshelves filled
with medical books, political thrillers, and books on trout fishing. She spotted a
photo of the two of them in a gold frame that he’d always kept on his desk. Taken
during a trip to New York City one December. Walter had his arm around her and her
head was resting on his shoulder. They were standing in front of Rockefeller Center,
the big Christmas tree glowing and glittering behind them. It was a sweet shot from
early in their marriage.

Such a precious time.

Suzanne smiled for a moment. And took a sip of tea. Turned away from the desk and
studied the room in general.

Maybe
it’s time to turn this room into a library,
she thought.
This house could use a library. And…I think I’ve waited long enough to make
this change.

Toenails clicked against the hardwood floor.

Suzanne turned and saw Baxter looking up at her, his dark eyes both loving and inquisitive.

“What do you think, fella? Think that’s the right thing to do?”

He let out a low “Grrrf.”

“Glad you concur,” she said.

Upstairs, Suzanne washed her face, brushed her teeth, changed into a big, comfy T-shirt,
and slid into bed. As she settled there in the dark, covers bunched over her, she
felt her heartbeat gradually slowing. Still, her thoughts turned to Joey.

Who could have launched an attack on him? One that was so sudden—and brutal.

Suzanne rolled onto her side and snuggled in, willing herself to put Joey out of her
mind for the next eight hours. Nighttime was reserved for rest and renewal, not for
replaying ugly scenes.

Ugly scenes. And ugly innuendos.

What if Hamilton Wick was wrong about Claudia? she wondered. What if she wasn’t having
an affair, after all? What if Wick was just imagining things? Could be. Maybe he was
just jealous.

Just as Suzanne was about to drop off to sleep, an image drifted into her head. She
saw George Draper, the funeral director, being so gentle, so caring, so solicitous
to Claudia. Gazing at her with soft, shining eyes. Almost like a lover.

And then she remembered Hamilton Wick denying that he knew the identity of Claudia’s
lover, but glancing up at the stage. Looking directly at George Draper, who’d just
been crowned king.

Suzanne drew a sharp intake of breath and was suddenly wide awake again, her eyes
popped open wide. Because, in that instant, she was pretty sure that Claudia Busacker
and George Draper were lovers.

The big question was: Had they conspired to murder Ben Busacker?

S
UZANNE’S
eyes snapped open at 5:59
A.M
. Exactly one minute before her trusty little CD player/alarm clock was set to explode
with chatter from WLGN’s exuberant morning DJ.

“Joey,” she whispered in the chill darkness. “I gotta go see Joey.”

Throwing her covers off, Suzanne sat up and rubbed the scratchies from her eyes. She
hoped Joey was okay, that nothing had changed overnight: no fever, no swelling on
the brain. She’d had foggy, frightening dreams about him, about finding him lying
in a puddle of blood, the heels of his boots drumming feebly against the icy pavement.

Suzanne slipped into her pink terry cloth robe and fuzzy pink slippers, the ones Baxter
sometimes pretended were bunnies and liked to stalk and pounce on when his wily little
dog brain slipped into playful mode. Padding downstairs, she held the back door open
and let the dogs meander outside to do their business.

“Make it snappy, guys, it’s cold!” she warned them.

Standing at the door, Suzanne inhaled a small sip of frosty air. The night sky was
just beginning to lighten in the east, streaks of gray morphing into eggshell blue
with tints of rosy pink. Very pretty, but a little threatening, too. Like a hint of
snow was lurking somewhere to the west, maybe already slicking roads and weighing
down power lines in Colorado or Montana.

Once the dogs were back inside, she filled their bowls
with fresh water and gave them each a scoop of dog food. She stood, watching them
plunge their muzzles into their bowls, spilling kibbles everywhere.

Oh well, they’ll just gobble them up off the floor.

Then she glugged down a quick cup of strong, black coffee and hurried upstairs to
take a shower.

As the hot, soothing water pelted down upon her back and neck, Suzanne stood there
an extra few minutes, enjoying every drop. Still, her mind kept racing to thoughts
of Joey. Why had he been attacked? Was this an indication of some new kind of crime
wave in Kindred? Or was it somehow linked to Busacker’s murder? All frightening questions
with no clear-cut answers.

T
HIRTY
minutes later, Suzanne was striding down the clean, bright, antiseptic halls of the
hospital, headed for Joey’s room on the second floor. People bustled all around her.
Nurses checking on patients, orderlies stacking fresh linens, a cart full of breakfast
trays rattling its way from room to room, smelling of scrambled eggs and cinnamon
toast.

The door to Joey’s room was partially opened. Suzanne gave a sharp knock and called
out, “Joey?”

He was sitting up in bed, a breakfast tray on his lap. His hair stuck straight up
in a few places, and a fresh gauze bandage covered the spot on his head where Sam
had sutured him last night.

“Hey!” said Joey, glancing over and giving a shy smile.

“How are you feeling?” asked Suzanne, stepping into his room.

“Doing okay,” said Joey. He reached for the TV remote and turned down the sound on
SpongeBob SquarePants.
“I got three stitches!”

“I heard,” said Suzanne. She noted that Joey’s cheeks were a healthy pink, and his
eyes seemed bright and inquisitive. Good, she thought. Probably no residual ill effects.

Shrugging out of her parka, Suzanne hung it on a peg by the door. “Looks like you
got breakfast in bed,” she said, smiling. She walked over to him and settled into
an uncomfortable plastic armchair parked next to his bed.

Joey chuckled. “The scrambled eggs are pretty decent. And look, I got pancakes, too.”
He pointed to a silver dollar-sized cake and a miniature bottle of syrup.

“Vermont maple syrup,” said Suzanne. “Very impressive. Just like room service at the
Four Seasons.”

“They even brought me coffee,” said Joey. “You want some? I never touch the stuff
myself.”

“Why not?” said Suzanne. She grabbed the little silver pot and filled a cup.

“It’s kind of fun being waited on,” said Joey. “Like when I was a little kid and I’d
stay home from school with a cold or something.” Then he crinkled his brow and offered
a faux-serious expression. “Guess I can’t come in to work today, huh?”

“You take all the time you need to recover,” said Suzanne. “Don’t worry about us.”

“I’m sorry about last night,” said Joey. “I shouldn’t have been so…abrupt. I mean,
when I saw you the
first
time. In the park.”

Suzanne waved a hand. “It’s okay, Joey.” Then she edged forward in her chair and said,
“But I would like to ask you about your getting hit last night.”

“Getting clunked!” said Joey.

“Can you recall anything about that?” asked Suzanne. “Now that you’ve had a little
time to kind of look back and reflect. Can you remember anything about the person
who attacked you?”

Joey touched a hand to the white gauze bandage, and his face clouded up. “Not really,”
he said. “I was, like, coasting along on my skateboard, headed for home. And suddenly,
it was like a ninja assassin or terrorist attack.
Ka-boom
!” He embellished his story with accompanying teenage-boy sound effects.

“That’s it?” said Suzanne. She took another few sips of coffee.

Joey nodded. “Pretty much. It was like getting slugged with a baseball bat. Down I
went.
Bam!
” More sound effects.

“Did you have any sense of someone leaping out from between parked cars or rushing
up from behind?”

“Nope, they pretty much caught me by surprise.”

“Do you think it was someone taller than you? Or maybe someone around your own age?”
Like Colby?

“No idea.” Joey gave a strangled grin. “Those are the same questions Sheriff Doogie
asked me last night.”

“Well, there you go,” said Suzanne. “We’re both interested in figuring out who your
attacker was.”

“Probably just some jerk from school,” said Joey.

“Probably,” said Suzanne.
Or maybe not.
She stood up, reached a hand out and touched his shoulder.
Nice boy. Please be safe.
“You take it easy, kiddo. Get plenty of rest.”

“I will. I’m probably going home later today.”

Suzanne turned to the coatrack and reached for her parka again. Her eyes fell upon
the jacket hanging there next to hers. Black and gray with a shield motif and a pirate
wearing a football helmet. She blinked, studied it for a moment, then said, very slowly
and deliberately, “You traded coats with Colby.” It was a statement not a question.

“Yeah,” Joey replied. “Couple of days ago. What of it?”

“And you did that why?”

Joey shrugged. “ ’Cause he had a Raiders jacket. It’s way cooler than my puffer jacket.”

“Let me take a wild guess here,” said Suzanne. “In exchange for Colby’s Raiders’ jacket,
you gave him your puffer coat and the key to the Cackleberry Club?”

Joey looked chagrined, but he wasn’t about to deny it. “Yeah.” He sniffled, was about
to dig a finger into a nostril, then thought better of it. “Are you real mad at me?”

“Joey,” said Suzanne, “I think that jacket is the reason you were attacked last night.”

Joey looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“Somebody saw the Raiders’ jacket you were wearing and thought you were Colby.”

“Who would think that?” Joey stabbed his fork at the last bite of pancake.

Suzanne had nowhere to go but straight to the truth. “The killer.”

“What?” Joey’s fork clattered to his tray, and his voice rose a good three octaves.
“You mean I was almost shot or stabbed or something?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Now Joey twitched nervously beneath his blankets. “Wa-wait a minute. You said
killer?
Are you talking about the same person who killed that snowmobile guy?”

“That’s a very distinct possibility, yes.”

Suzanne could see the wheels spinning in Joey’s head, making hasty connections.

“Is somebody gonna come after me?” he asked. “I mean, am I in some kind of danger?”