Stake & Eggs (24 page)

“No, honey, you’re not,” Suzanne assured him. “I’m going to call Sheriff Doogie, and
he’s going to take care of this.”

“Promise?” Joey looked terrified, and Suzanne felt sick at heart.

“I promise,” said Suzanne.

H
OPPING
into her car in the hospital parking lot, Suzanne started the engine and cranked
up the heater full blast. Then she pulled out her cell phone and punched in Doogie’s
number. “Be there, Doogie,” she hissed out loud. “Be at work
now.”

He picked up on the first ring. “Yeah,” he said. “Doogie here.”

“I know why Joey Ewald was attacked last night,” Suzanne said, in a breathless, over-caffeinated
rush of words.

There was a pause and then Doogie said, “What are you talking about? Slow down, Suzanne.
Explain yourself.”

“Joey’s attacker thought he was Colby!”

“Colby? The runaway?”

“Here’s the thing,” said Suzanne. She fought to keep her voice level. “I just came
from visiting Joey, and he had Colby’s Raiders jacket.”

“The Oakland Raiders?” said Doogie.

“Yes,” said Suzanne. “The key point being that the two boys
exchanged
jackets!”

“You’re still not giving me a plausible explanation as to why Joey was attacked,”
said Doogie.

Suzanne fought to get her words straight. “Late yesterday, when I talked to Colby
at the Cackleberry Club, I quizzed him about maybe seeing something the night Busacker
was killed. Just because he’d been hanging around here, sleeping in the barn across
the way. And Colby suddenly got all nervous and hinky, which led me to believe he
had
seen something. I mean, you should have seen his reaction! When I mentioned Busacker’s
snowmobile accident, it was like he’d been poked with a hot wire!”

“Yeah?”

“And then, a few hours later, Joey, wearing Colby’s jacket, was brutally assaulted.”

“And you think our killer did this,” said Doogie. “That he thought Joey was Colby
and came back to try to finish off a potential witness?” He didn’t sound convinced.

“Yes, that’s it exactly!”

“Huh.”

“It really does make sense,” said Suzanne. She felt like she’d just deciphered the
Rosetta stone or something.

“You could be on to something,” allowed Doogie. “But we’ve got to nail things down
a little more. First off, we need to locate this Colby kid and really sweat him. Where’d
you say he was now?”

“That’s the problem,” said Suzanne. “Nobody’s got a clue.”

“Not even Joey?”

“He says no.”

“Okay, then,” said Doogie. “I’ll issue a bulletin. That way we’ll have him by noon.”

“You hope,” said Suzanne.

“I’m the long arm of the law, Suzanne,” said Doogie. “If we really want him, we’ll
catch him.”

“There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” said Suzanne. She was dying
to tell him about the very real possibility that George Draper and Claudia Busacker
were having an affair. And about their $1.5-million-dollar motive to get Ben Busacker
out of the way. But she wanted to deliver that juicy little nugget in person.

“What else are you fussing over?” said Doogie.

“Look,” said Suzanne, “just stop by for lunch today, okay? Then we can talk in person.”

“I might be busy,” Doogie hedged.

“Too busy for chicken potpie?” asked Suzanne. She knew it was one of his all-time
favorites.

“You’re a wicked woman, Suzanne. Plus you drive a hard bargain.”

“See you around noon,” said Suzanne.

W
HEN
Suzanne walked into the Cackleberry Club, it smelled of fried onions, fresh cracked
pepper, and malty Assam tea.

“Heaven,” said Suzanne as she kicked off her boots.

Petra turned from her stove and smiled. “Got my breakfast casserole baking away.”

“Smells like it,” said Suzanne.

Then the swinging door banged open, and Toni came barging in. “So how’s Joey?” she
asked.

Suzanne was taken aback. “How’d you hear about Joey?”

Petra posed with a hand on an ample hip. “Are you for real? Some moron’s been tweeting
about it. The news is all over the dang county!”

“You can’t turn around and let loose a good fart these
days without somebody tweeting or twittering or whatever about it,” said Toni.

“Toni!” said Petra. “Gross!”

“It’s the darned truth,” Toni muttered.

“So how
is
Joey?” asked Petra. She grabbed a basket of cocoa brown eggs and proceeded to crack
them into a large aluminum bowl. “I take it you stopped at the hospital?”

“Joey seems to be recovering fairly well,” said Suzanne. “Eating pancakes and watching
SpongeBob.”

“Sounds just like Junior,” said Toni.

“It’s weird how that assault on him came out of nowhere,” said Petra, picking up a
wire whisk and attacking her eggs. “Do they know…was it kids? Some kind of gang activity?”

“Nooo,” said Suzanne. Then she decided she’d better come clean. “I have a theory about
that. In fact, I already pitched it to Doogie.”

Petra’s whisking suddenly ceased. “What are you talking about?”

Suzanne quickly shared her discovery about Joey and Colby trading jackets. And then
carefully explained to her friends how she thought the killer had targeted Joey, thinking
he was Colby.

“Shut the front door!” whooped Toni. “Are you serious?”

“Afraid so,” said Suzanne.

“I don’t like the sound of that one bit,” said Petra.

“That’s for sure,” said Toni. “It means the killer’s still in town.”

“It means the killer was at the Fire and Ice Parade last night,” said Suzanne.

“That’s a chilling thought,” said Petra. “I mean, I wasn’t there, but you two were.”

“How much credence is there to the rumor that Charlie Steiner might be the killer?”
asked Toni. “I mean, he could have been the one who conked Joey on the head last night.”

“Could have been,” said Suzanne, recalling how angry and morose Steiner had been at
Schmitt’s Bar.

“I hate to ask this,” said Petra, “but was Ducovny around last night?”

Suzanne and Toni glanced at each other.

“I didn’t see him,” said Suzanne.

“Me neither,” said Toni.

“He didn’t do it,” said Suzanne.

But Petra wasn’t convinced. “A couple of days ago, I would have put my hand on a Bible
and swore he didn’t do it. But yesterday, when he turned up at our back door…man,
he sure looked angry.”

“He didn’t do it,” Suzanne repeated, her words sharp and clipped. But deep in her
heart she thought:
Dear lord, what if he did?

T
HEY
turned their full attention to breakfast then, shaking off their worries, getting
the tables set and ready. Toni brewed pots of Kona green-bean blend, a buttery, rich
coffee with hints of cinnamon and clove. Suzanne pulled out three Chinese teapots
and measured out servings of raspberry tea, Darjeeling, and Moroccan mint.

“With fresh tea leaves available, why would anyone use tea bags?” she mused.

“The same reason people eat frozen pizza versus making fresh,” said Toni. “They don’t
know any better.”

“Or they don’t have a good pizza dough recipe,” said Suzanne.

Toni nodded. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

When their breakfast customers came tumbling in out of the cold, Suzanne and Toni
revved up their activity level, pouring coffee, taking orders, then hustling them
in to Petra.

“Whoa,” said Suzanne, when she popped into the kitchen. Petra had an enormous mound
of shredded cheese piled up on the butcher block counter. “It’s like the Big
Rock Candy Mountain, only made out of cheese. Think you got enough cheese?”

“I’m not sure you can ever throw in enough cheese with quiche,” said Petra, and she
was dead serious.

“But it’s in the egg batter
and
the topping,” said Suzanne.

Petra nodded. “Sometimes I even pile an extra inch or two on top of my quiche before
I bake it.”

“It’s a good thing this cheese is low cal and low cholesterol,” said Suzanne.

“Oh, absolutely,” grinned Petra.

By nine o’clock there was one open table, a two top near the window. Which was when
Reverend Yoder came stumping in.

“You just got our last table,” Suzanne, smiling, told Reverend Yoder as she seated
him. “Otherwise you’d be doing takeout.” Reverend Yoder was the minister, fund-raiser,
caretaker, and all around go-to guy at the Journey’s End Church next door. He was
tall and rail-thin, with silvered gray hair and an austere bearing that many people
found intimidating. But beneath the hard-shell exterior of a religious aesthete beat
the heart of a pussycat. He was always kind, understanding, and cordial. And even
after surviving a terrible fire at his church, as well as being felled by a heart
attack, Reverend Yoder remained hard at work, ministering to his small but dedicated
flock.

Reverend Yoder bobbed his head at her. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Dietz.”

“Suzanne,” she said. “Call me Suzanne.”

“As you wish,” said Reverend Yoder. He paused. “I’ve been doing a kind of traveling
ministry these last few days, so I just yesterday returned to town.” He eyed her with
interest. “But I understand you had some terrible trouble here.” His furry brows wrinkled
like twin caterpillars. “Ben Busacker?”

“Afraid so,” said Suzanne.

“Do they know…er, does the sheriff have any suspects?” he asked.

“Suspects, yes. Arrests, no,” said Suzanne. She tapped a finger on the table. “So
you be careful, okay? Keep your doors locked until this
whoever
is apprehended.” Reverend Yoder had a small office in the back of the church and
lived in the small sitting room, kitchen, and bedroom downstairs.

“Don’t like to lock the doors,” said Reverend Yoder. “It sends an unfriendly message.”

“Then keep a sharp eye out,” said Suzanne. She touched her pen to her order pad. “What
can I get for you?”

“Just oatmeal,” said Reverend Yoder, “with a little fruit. Blueberries, if you’ve
got them.” He shifted in his chair. “You know we’re planning to hold our dedication
in a few weeks. We’re pretty excited about how fast we were able to rebuild after
the fire and how lovely the church looks. We even purchased a new statue, hand painted
in Italy.” He paused. “I know you’re not part of our congregation, Suzanne, but you’d
be most welcome.”

“I’d love to come,” said Suzanne. “If you’d like, the Cackleberry Club can even handle
the refreshments. Do coffee and cookies, maybe even bake a nice sheet cake.”

“You’d really do that for us?” Reverend Yoder seemed pleased and a little surprised.

“Of course I would,” said Suzanne. “That’s what neighbors are for.”

“Thank you,” said Reverend Yoder. “That means a lot to me.”

“I
T
’s time,” Toni said, nudging Suzanne at the counter. “For the clue.”

“Right! The big number three,” said Suzanne. She reached up and turned the radio on
low while Toni grabbed paper and pen. Then Paula Patterson’s friendly voice chirped
out the third treasure-hunt clue:

“I have no earthly idea what she’s babbling about,” blurted Toni. “All these clues
ever talk about is snow and ice, which we have way too much of in these parts.” She
turned pleading eyes on Suzanne. “You’re still gonna help me figure this out, aren’t
you?”

“I thought Junior was going to help you. I thought he did help you last night.”

Toni gave a delicate sniff. “Please. There’s a reason Junior’s an auto mechanic and
not first officer on a nuclear sub.”

“That bad?” said Suzanne. She knew Toni probably had a valid point. Junior’s idea
of hunting for the treasure probably involved driving around town and challenging
people to drag races while he cooked a pot roast.

“Maybe we could study the clues and kind of poke around tonight?” Toni said hopefully.
“After the play?”

“Oh my goodness,” said Suzanne. “Tonight’s the play. We’ve been so busy I almost forgot.”

“
Titanic
,” said Toni, who was really looking forward to it. “But do you think we could still
look afterward?”

“I think we could probably do that,” said Suzanne.

A few customers lingered in the café while Petra hummed along to the radio in the
kitchen. This was the time of day Suzanne liked to savor. The forty or fifty minutes
between the end of breakfast service and the start of lunch. Everything slowed to
a nice, leisurely pace, and she could sip a cup of tea or pop into the Book Nook and
stretch her creative muscles by making some kind of fun arrangement. They’d just gotten
in some new books on finances, real estate, and the stock market, so maybe she could
do something with her old crank adding machine and a few rolled up copies of the
Wall Street
Journal.
Lord knows, money, or lack of it, seemed to be on everyone’s brain these days.

“Petra?” Suzanne called out. The humming in the kitchen suddenly stopped. “What’s
our soup today?”

“Well, it started out as chicken noodle,” Petra called back, “but I had leftover cheese,
so I tossed it in…um, let’s just call it chicken cheese soup?”

“Got it,” said Suzanne. Cheesy chicken soup. If you could even find a few chunks of
chicken in Petra’s swirling magma of cheese.

Suzanne added chicken potpie, turkey and swiss cheese sandwich, Monte Cristo sandwich,
and blond brownies to her menu. Just as she finished printing it all out on her blackboard
in colored chalk, her eye caught a flash of chrome out the front window. Doogie’s
tan-colored cruiser had just rolled into their parking lot.

“How ready are those chicken potpies?” she called.

“Five more minutes,” said Petra, peering out the pass-through. “Why?”

“I’m gonna need one,” she said. “Pronto.”

“Oh,” said Petra. “For the sheriff?”