Stake & Eggs (9 page)

“Ducovny?” said Sam. “Your Ducovny? The guy who won’t kill a beetle?”

“Exactly,” said Suzanne. “That’s what I told Doogie. He’s, like, mouse potatoes.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know, I just made it up. I guess I meant small potatoes. Nothing there. That
Doogie is way off base.”

“Except for the wire,” said Sam.

“Anybody could have cut that wire,” said Suzanne. “It was just…I don’t know, there
for the cutting.”

“And Ducovny really asked you to intercede?” said Sam. He paused, a fork in one hand,
a knife in the other. “Please tell me you’re not going to.”

“No, of course not,” said Suzanne. Feeling a little guilty that she hadn’t told him
the whole truth, she took a quick gulp of wine, then said, “Oh, and then Claudia Busacker
showed up to take the grand tour and see exactly where her husband spent his last
few moments on earth.”

“Bad day at Black Rock.”

“You have no idea,” said Suzanne. “Poor Claudia, I felt terrible for her. Can you
imagine what she put herself through by going back into those woods? To visit the
very spot where her husband was killed? Of course, I also thought she was incredibly
strong-willed to be able to do that.”

“I’ve seen a lot of that over the years,” said Sam. “People who just need to have
a sense of certainty and gain a sense of closure and peace.”

“Even though the circumstances of their loved one’s death might be considered horrific?”
asked Suzanne.

“Yes,” Sam replied. “The bereaved often have the need to physically view the place
where their loved one died. They need to burn the particular details into their memory.
Otherwise, they end up regretting it for years after, wishing they’d gone back for
a look. So for Claudia’s mental health, it was probably better in the long run that
she saw the place where her husband was killed.”

“She didn’t seem better off,” said Suzanne. “In fact, she seemed more upset.”

“That’s because she’s still processing it,” said Sam.

“But the circumstances…” Suzanne hesitated. “It keeps gnawing at me. I mean, how exactly
does someone get decapitated by a stretched wire?”

Sam looked at her with some concern. “You want the clinical details?”

Suzanne nodded. “Maybe I do.”

“I’d say Busacker’s death was brutally clean and efficient,” said Sam, switching to
a more professional, medical tone of voice. “It would appear the wire caught him directly
on the neck, under his chin, where he was most vulnerable. Couple that with his high
rate of speed on the snowmobile, and it was a recipe for disaster.”

“He was decapitated,” said Suzanne. “So that’s the
cause
of death?”

“After being deprived of circulating oxygenated blood, his brain died within minutes,”
said Sam.

Suzanne winced. “Did he feel any pain?”

“Most likely not,” said Sam. “I think the whole episode happened too quickly for him
to experience pain or for his brain to register any reaction. Kind of like…the old
French guillotine.”

“Wow.”

They were both quiet for a moment, almost as if they’d mutually agreed to observe
a moment of silence for Busacker. The only things moving in the room were the candles
flickering in front of them, slowly dripping rivulets of white wax.

“I’m nearly positive I heard a second snowmobile,” said Suzanne. “Just minutes before
Busacker was killed.”

“You think someone else was out there?”

“I do, but I can’t prove it. The snow was pelting down like crazy, pretty much obliterating
any other tracks.” Suzanne sighed. “So…I don’t know. Maybe Busacker was being chased?
Maybe that’s why his sled was running so fast when he died?”

“Could have happened,” said Sam. “Now it’s up to Sheriff Doogie to sort everything
out. I imagine he stopped by today?”

“A couple of times,” said Suzanne. “First thing this morning, then again mid-afternoon.”

“And?” prompted Sam.

“Doogie’s certainly made the case top priority. He’s asking questions and digging
around.”

“He’s a good man,” said Sam.

“But there aren’t a lot of clear-cut clues,” said Suzanne, “so it could take time.
Of course, Mayor Mobley thinks the whole thing should have been wrapped up in about
two hours.”

“I can’t believe that buffoon got reelected,” said Sam.

“Rumor has it he stuffed the ballot box,” said Suzanne. She reflected for a moment,
thinking back to last night again. “How often do you see a grisly accident like that?”

“Exactly like that one?” said Sam. “Never have before. But I have encountered some
unbelievable things in my medical career. Gruesome injuries and deaths that really
have no place, if you don’t mind my saying, at this wonderful dinner table of yours.”

“But how do you have the stomach for the really tough stuff?” she asked. “How do you
handle it? Because I don’t think I could.”

“I think you could,” said Sam. “For example, you’d probably do well in a morgue, where
medical students put in their time studying gross anatomy.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Suzanne.

“If you have the stomach for understanding a beheading, then you have the stomach
for, let’s say, looking inside a human kneecap, or studying the gnarled bones of a
ninety-eight-year-old woman’s hand, or stitching up a terrible gash on the side of
someone’s jaw.”

Suzanne grimaced. “I think even the kneecap is pushing it for me.”

Sam smiled. “Oh, I think Suzanne Dietz is one tough lady.”

“Maybe she is,” said Suzanne. “But she’s also wise enough to know when it’s time to
let this conversation go.”

Sam leaned back from the table and stretched. “Time for me to help with the dishes?”

“Time for dessert,” said Suzanne. “I was going to serve bread pudding with an optional
scoop of French vanilla ice cream.”

“Wow. You really know how to pile on the calories, lady. I’m going to have to do double
crunches and pull-ups at the gym tomorrow.”

They ended up watching a thriller on HBO and sipping cheggnog, Suzanne’s blend of
eggnog and chai tea. Curled up together on Suzanne’s cushy couch in the living room.

My home feels complete, Suzanne thought to herself a little later, as they lay cuddled
together. It feels warm and comfortable to have a man back in my life again. Her mind
flew briefly to thoughts of Walter. What they had together, what they shared. Then
she brought herself back to the here and now, where she really belonged.

Try to live in the present
, she reminded herself.
After all, that’s one of the affirmations Toni, Petra, and I have in our little collection.

When the ten o’clock news was over, after the weatherman had warned of more sub-zero
temperatures rumbling down from Canada, Sam stretched, stood up, and padded to the
window in his stocking feet. “Awfully cold out there,” he said.

Suzanne walked up behind him and circled her arms around his waist. “Maybe too cold.”

“Mmn, you might be right.”

“Nice and warm upstairs,” she said.

He turned around and pulled her close. “That’s the best offer I’ve had since…”

“Last week?” She grinned. He’d been over for dinner last week, too. They definitely,
officially, were becoming an item. And as they climbed the stairs, hand in hand, Suzanne
thought to herself,
Correction: we
are
an item.

T
WO
hours later, a cool muzzle tickled her arm. Baxter asking to go out. Slowly, carefully,
without waking Sam, Suzanne slipped out from beneath the poufy down comforter. In
the chill air of her dark bedroom, she dressed hurriedly,
pulling on fleece pants and a long-sleeve shirt. Downstairs she added boots, a parka,
and a knit cap.

Then they were out the door and crunching down the sidewalk, Baxter and Scruff straining
at their leashes. The snow had frosted all the trees up and down her block, and the
nearby homes looked gingerbread perfect. Very snug and picturesque with puffs of smoke
curling up from the chimneys.

If I were an artist, Suzanne thought, I would paint this scene. I’d even try to capture
the scatter of stars, strewn like a game of glittery jacks, high in the inky black
sky.

But as Suzanne led the dogs back to her house, she couldn’t help wonder: In this picture-perfect
little town, who really had murder in their heart?

S
UZANNE
arrived at the Cackleberry Club bright and early Wednesday morning, energized after
her night with Sam and ready to jump in and serve the morning’s breakfast crowd.

Petra was already presiding over her stove, rattling pans while pancetta sizzled and
popped in one of her cast-iron skillets. Batter for red-velvet chocolate-chip pancakes
sat at the ready.

“Morning, sweetie,” Suzanne said, greeting her. “What’d you conjure up for breakfast
today?”

“Hey,” said Petra, turning with a smile on her face. “I’ve got something new to rock
your world.”

“Lay it on me.”

Petra flipped the pancetta onto paper towels to drain. “Poached eggs stuffed inside
popovers.”

“Yikes,” said Suzanne. “What do you call something like that?”

“Nest Eggs,” grinned Petra.

“Isn’t that cute?” asked Toni, as she pushed her way into the kitchen, looking like
a rodeo star in her hot pink cowboy shirt and tight blue jeans. “Isn’t our Petra a
creative genius?”

“As well as a kitchen genius,” agreed Suzanne. She was forever thankful that Petra’s
broad Scandinavian face was the one she saw every morning at the stove wearing her
oversize apron and funky clogs and taking infinite care with everything she prepped
and cooked.

“So,” said Toni, popping a couple of purple grapes in her mouth, “how was your dinner
last night?” She paused, chewing. “Yep, I’ve got my trusty shovel out, digging for
girlfriend dirt.”

Suzanne was suddenly busy with a stack of plates. “Oh, it was fine. Just fine.”

“Anything special you want to tell us about?” pressed Toni. “Because enquiring minds
won’t be satisfied with a noncommittal ‘fine.’ Enquiring minds want to hear a few
juicy details.” She reached up and popped the top button on her shirt, revealing a
smidgeon of lacey pink bra.

When Suzanne shook her head and smiled, Toni blurted out, “Come on, Suzanne, spill
it. Throw us a bone. Or do Petra and I have to browbeat it out of you? You know darn
well we’re not easily vanquished.”

“Unless there’s a bottle of Jack Daniel’s involved,” said Suzanne.

“Oooh,” said Toni, balling her fists, frustrated.

“Face it,” Petra said to Toni, “a good-looking guy like that? Suzanne probably had
a magical night. Fireworks and pinwheels.”

“Did you?” asked Toni.

“All you need to know,” said Suzanne, “is that Sam and I had a terrific dinner together.
Steak, wine, and all the fixings.”

“Couldn’t you just elaborate on the fixings?” Toni pleaded. “Like the kissing and
the hugging and the—”

“I’m happy for you, Suzanne,” cut in Petra, as she pulled a pan of enormous popovers
from the oven and placed it on the counter. “It’s a thrill to see you really enjoying
life again.”

“I didn’t enjoy life before?” asked Suzanne.

Toni and Petra exchanged glances.

“After Walter died,” said Petra gently, “it was difficult. You were always so quiet
and serious.”

“But for good reason,” said Toni.

“And because I was honchoing the grand opening of this place!” said Suzanne.

“Yes,” said Petra, “but you were grieving, too. Probably still are.”

“Can you still grieve for someone and fall in love again?” Toni wondered.

“Sure you can,” said Petra. “But it takes a special person to…I don’t know what you’d
call it…compartmentalize those experiences.” She smiled at Suzanne. “One who has her
head on straight.”

“Speaking of heads…” said Toni.

“Oooh, don’t you dare bring that up!” said Petra. Now she looked deeply perturbed.
“I don’t want to hear about Ben Busacker anymore. I just want that whole nasty episode
to be done with!” She put her hands on her broad hips. “Do you ladies realize how
busy we are?” Then, without letting them answer, she continued. “Fire and Ice kicks
off today, I’ve got Stitch and Bitch tonight, and tomorrow is our Crystal Tea. And
if that isn’t enough to worry about, we’ll probably have Sheriff Doogie schlumping
around here looking for clues.” She threw up her hands. “Lord love a duck!”

S
UZANNE
kicked it into high gear then, brewing pots of Sumatran roast coffee and English
breakfast tea, and making last-minute adjustments to table settings before her early
morning customers came tumbling in. And, all the while, she was thinking about the
bottom line. The Cackleberry Club was a business, after all. And Suzanne was well
aware that making a profit was a far cry from just making a living. What she liked
to think of as her diversification—the café, Book Nook, and Knitting Nest—had proved
to be a lethal business combination. And for some strange reason, when one wasn’t
contributing its fair share to the bottom line, the other two seemed to kick in and
do amazingly well. Go figure.

Ruminating about finances led Suzanne back to thoughts of that beefy-faced regional
bank manager, Ed Rapson,
who’d stormed his way in here yesterday. And the pressure he was undoubtedly exerting
on Sheriff Doogie to solve the Busacker case practically overnight.

Rapson bothered her. And not just because he’d tried to sic Doogie onto poor Reed
Ducovny. No, Rapson carried an air of fat-cat slicko about him. He was aggressive
and edgy and seemed to have something personal on the line.

What was Rapson so worked up about? Suzanne wondered. Somehow it seemed to go way
beyond simply losing a valued employee. Suzanne turned that notion over in her mind
as she stacked fat jelly donuts in the glass pie saver. And suddenly made a scary
leap in thought: Could Rapson have been involved in Busacker’s death? Had Busacker
discovered some problem at the bank? Or had Busacker been a problem? And had Rapson
neatly eliminated that problem? Could have happened.