by Laura Childs
“Indeed I do, my dear. Which is why I’m begging you to take care.”
CHAPTER 3
“I already heard about the murder,” were Petra’s first words as Suzanne and Toni tumbled through the kitchen door of the Cackleberry Club Monday morning, ushering in a whoosh of frigid air. “I’ve been listening to WLGN since the sun came up, and Allan Sharp’s murder has been positively splashed across the news. They even had it on before the farm report. First a nasty murder and then hog prices.” Petra gazed at Suzanne and Toni with a mixture of shock and awe. “And to think you guys were there.” She shoved both hands deep into the pockets of her checkered apron and shook her head. “Must have been awful.”
“It was spooky,” Toni said, eyes sparkling as she shrugged out of her coat.
“No, Petra’s right,” Suzanne said. “It was awful.”
“And there isn’t a single suspect?” Petra asked. She was a big-boned Norwegian lady with a kind face, no-nonsense short silver hair, and warm, expressive hazel eyes. Now in her early fifties, Petra was confident and satisfied and wore her age like a badge of honor.
“Could have been a ghost,” Toni said.
“Could have been someone who had a major beef with Allan Sharp,” Suzanne said.
“Now, there’s a major shocker,” Petra said. “Half of Kindred had a beef with that dingbat Allan Sharp. If Sheriff Doogie tries to narrow down a list of people who didn’t like Sharp, he’s going to be interviewing people until the spring thaw.”
“Doogie’s going to have to figure something out,” Suzanne said. “People are really shaken up by this.”
“Will the Christmas play still go on?” Petra asked.
Suzanne shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“The show must go on,” Toni said. “Isn’t that the tried-and-true saying?”
“But maybe not when the principal actor has been murdered in cold blood,” Suzanne said.
Petra picked up her spatula, bent over a frying pan, and started shoving hash browns around. “Mmn, don’t like that word, ‘murder.’ Let’s just keep all that investigative nonsense out of my kitchen. It not only puts me in a downer mood; it’s bad karma to boot.”
“Toni,” Suzanne said, “why don’t you unlock the front door and make sure the tables are all set for breakfast? I’ll print out our specials on the chalkboard.” She gave Petra a sideways look. “I’m assuming we have a few specials?”
“Killer specials,” Petra said. Then she put a hand up to her mouth and said, “Well, you know what I mean.” She dug in her apron pocket and handed Suzanne a three-by-five-inch recipe card with writing on it. “Here you go, Suzy-Q.”
Suzanne glanced at the list of specials. “Elvis French toast?”
“What the heck is that?” Toni asked.
“It’s French toast stuffed with peanut butter and bananas,” Petra said.
Toni perked up. “Sounds pretty good.”
* * *
• • •
SUZANNE and Toni pushed through the swinging door and got busy in the café. They snapped on lights, jacked up the thermostat a few degrees, and glanced around. The tables were covered in cheery yellow and white tablecloths and had salt and pepper shakers and sugar bowls ready to go. But they needed to be set with napkins, silverware, pitchers of cream, and ceramic coffee mugs. When the morning rush started—and it would probably begin in the next ten minutes—they had to be ready. Hungry truckers and farmers would be bulldozing their way in, anxious to order their hearty and delicious breakfasts.
While Toni worked on the tables, Suzanne put on two pots of coffee, French roast and a Kona blend. She also got hot water ready for tea and pulled out a pretty Coalport teapot in the Ming Rose pattern, as well as a Chinese blue and white teapot. More and more she’d weaned her customers away from tea bags and had them enjoying fresh-brewed tea leaves, especially in the afternoons, when she offered cream teas and special event teas.
“Got sticky buns fresh from the oven,” Petra called out.
Suzanne leaned forward and saw that Petra had pushed two trays of glazed cinnamon and pecan rolls through the pass-through. Good. She stacked the rolls carefully in the glass pie server that sat atop her old-fashioned ceramic counter, the counter that came as a sort of bonus gift when she’d scrounged the old-fashioned soda fountain backdrop from a long-defunct drugstore.
The rest of the Cackleberry Club was equally charming. Funky metal signs and colorful painted plates adorned the walls, along with a few of Petra’s hand-stitched wall hangings. There was an oak cabinet that held candles, vases, linens, and glassware, and wooden shelving that ran all around the room and served as a perch for Suzanne’s vast collection of ceramic chickens. She had everything from salt-and-pepper-shaker chicks to enormous red and green roosters.
Across the café were the Book Nook and the Knitting Nest. When Suzanne had acquired and renovated the building, what had been an old Spur station, those two extra rooms had been a kind of lucky-strike extra. Now one was filled to capacity with bestsellers, the other jammed full of quilting fabrics and colorful skeins of yarn, a nod to Petra, who also gave knitting and quilting lessons a couple of times a week.
“The chalkboard,” Toni called out. “You gotta put up the specials.”
“I’m on it,” Suzanne called back, realizing she’d kind of spaced out for a few minutes. Thinking about Allan Sharp . . . and the mysterious ghost.
So . . . rosemary scones and sticky rolls. Elvis French toast. Hash browns and turkey bacon. Breakfast burritos. Peach cobbler pancakes. Scrambled eggs and veggie omelets. Everything farm-to-table fresh, but hearty enough to keep a person fueled for the cold.
When she’d finished, Suzanne walked to the front window, pushed back the café curtains, and stared out at the blanket of snow. It made everything—the driveway, trees, small buildings across the way—look pristine and softly mounded. Then she remembered the drops of bright crimson blood dripping from the ghost’s knife last night and felt a sudden tickle of apprehension. Was she safe? Was anybody in Kindred really safe with a killer on the prowl?
* * *
• • •
THREE minutes later, their first customers began to arrive and Suzanne was caught up in the morning rush. She greeted people, seated them at tables, poured coffee, and listened to gossip about last night’s murder as it swirled around her like an ill wind. She took orders, delivered them to Petra, then ran back out into the café and took more orders.
“Are you picking up snippets of the conversation du jour?” Toni asked when she and Suzanne met behind the counter. “Everyone seems to be gossiping about Allan Sharp’s murder.”
“Because everyone knows about it by now,” Suzanne said.
“Small-town folk,” Toni said. “Our underground network has better communication ops than the US military.”
“And everyone’s got a theory on whodunit.”
“Guy at table eight suspects al-Qaeda,” Toni said. She tapped a finger against her head. “Ca-rack-pot.”
Suzanne grabbed three breakfast orders that were up, delivered them to her customers, and then glanced out the window again. Then, seeing a familiar face bobbing across the parking lot, she hurried to the front door with a big smile on her face.
“Reverend Yoder,” Suzanne said as she held the door open. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” Reverend Yoder was the heart and soul of the Journey’s End Church, which was just across the parking lot from the Cackleberry Club. He was tall and thin and had a strict Calvinistic aura about him. Once you got to know him, however, he turned out to be one of the gentlest, most kindhearted people in Kindred.
Reverend Yoder bustled in, shivering and smiling as he clapped his gloved hands against the sleeves of his thin coat. “I finally got to the point where I couldn’t resist the temptation of all the delicious aromas emanating from your fine kitchen.”
“You see,” Suzanne said, “there is such a thing as good temptation.”
“I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine,” Reverend Yoder said. “This is Ethan Jakes.”
“Wonderful to meet you,” Suzanne said, shaking hands with the young man who’d accompanied Reverend Yoder. She noted that Ethan Jakes seemed to be a stark contrast to Yoder. Jakes had a pinched face and a furrowed brow and wore what looked to be a permanent scowl.
“Reverend Jakes is newly ordained and going to be our new assistant pastor,” Yoder said.
“Wait . . . don’t tell me you’re leaving us,” Suzanne said, surprise and dismay evident in her voice.
“Not for a while, anyway,” Reverend Yoder said. “But it never hurts to be prepared.”
Suzanne led the two men to a table, got them settled, and then poured each of them a cup of coffee. “You heard about our trouble last night?” she asked. “At the theater?”
“Such a terrible tragedy.” Reverend Yoder shook his head. “Poor Mr. Sharp.”
That seemed to be a cue for young Ethan Jakes to come alive with a fiery Bible verse. “For he is God’s servant for your good,” he suddenly sang out. “But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God’s wrath on the wrongdoer.”
“You think Allan Sharp was a wrongdoer?” Suzanne asked. She was taken aback by the man’s intensity.
“He most certainly was,” Jakes said. “One of my first missions when I arrived in Kindred was to approach Allan Sharp. I wanted him to be my champion at the city council and help sponsor a day of prayer. Instead, Sharp scoffed at me.” Jakes’s lip curled in disdain and he shook his head. “With the evil pull of technology, pornography, and drugs in our society, a day of prayer is practically a requirement!”
“Well, I’ll settle for Sheriff Doogie sorting out the wrongdoers here in town,” Suzanne said. “Along with administering just punishments.” She smiled at Reverend Yoder. “I’m guessing you’re here for one of Petra’s omelets?”
“With vegetables and cheese,” Yoder said. “And a cup of tea. Something with a little body.”
“I’m just brewing a pot of Assam.”
“Perfect,” Yoder said.
“And you?” Suzanne asked Jakes.
He stared at her with dark-rimmed eyes. “Just a simple poached egg on dry toast.”
* * *
• • •
AT eleven o’clock, Sheriff Doogie came drifting in. Most of the breakfast crowd had departed and it was too early for the luncheon crowd, so he glanced around, seemingly pleased that he wouldn’t be bothered, and stomped over to the counter. Slouching down on his favorite stool, he swiped off his Smokey Bear hat and set it on the stool next to him. It was a clear warning that no one should infringe on his personal space.
Suzanne poured Doogie a cup of black coffee, then placed two sticky buns on a plate and set it in front of him. The sheriff was like a trained bear; he responded positively to sugar.
“How late were you at the theater last night?” Suzanne asked.
Doogie blew on his coffee, then took a quick sip. “Don’t ask.”
“It was that bad, huh?”
“Ah, it is what it is. Problems and vexation come hand in hand with the gold star.”
“How did your interviews with the other cast members go?” Suzanne asked.
“They weren’t terribly productive. Can I get some butter, please?”
“Does that mean you didn’t come up with any decent leads?” Suzanne gave him four pats of butter.
“Can’t say that I did,” Doogie said. He slathered butter on his sticky roll, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully. “I was hoping that maybe you remembered something else. You know, in the cold, clear light of morning.” He shifted on his stool. “Since you’ve had some time to ruminate, is there anything else you can tell me? Anything your mind might have dredged up overnight?”
“All I saw was the ghost,” Suzanne said. “Only it was a fake ghost.”
Doogie glanced around, then leaned forward on his stool and gave Suzanne a conspiratorial look. “But that’s what makes this case so weird . . . some crazy jackhole had that costume all ready to go.” He enunciated his words carefully. “Which means Allan Sharp’s murder was planned.”
“Premeditated,” Suzanne said. She shivered at the connotation the word carried. She hadn’t thought about the costume aspect last night, but now it seemed obvious.
“Planned and carried out by someone who was reckless and brazen enough to murder Allan Sharp in front of a dozen people,” Doogie said.
“Maybe the killer is just plain crazy,” Suzanne said. “A dangerous psychopath.”
“There’s always that theory,” Doogie agreed. “But most times . . .” He hesitated, looking thoughtful now. “When a man commits murder, there’s a reason that drives him to it.”
“A motivating factor,” Suzanne said.
Doogie bobbed his head. “Anger, resentment, jealousy, political ideology, that sort of thing.”
“You asked the all-important question last night,” Suzanne said. “Who hated Allan Sharp?”
“I asked and then answered my own question. Pretty much everybody in town.”
“That makes for a pile of suspects.”
“And the pile keeps getting bigger with every person I talk to,” Doogie said. “Seems nearly everyone had some kind of gripe with Sharp. Hell, even I had words with the guy on more than one occasion. He was a real jackass.”
“So, what now?” Suzanne asked.
Doogie looked troubled. “I’ll keep asking around. Dig into Sharp’s finances and different business interests. See if that leads anywhere.” He took a slurp of coffee. “People are really freaked-out about this. I’m catching a lot of heat. Mayor Mobley convened a special meeting with the city council.”
“It’s only natural for people to be scared.”
“I understand that,” Doogie said. “But it doesn’t make my investigation any easier. Hell, the guy who killed Sharp could have been here for breakfast this morning, stuffing his face with flapjacks, chuckling to himself because nobody was the wiser.”
“Now you’re trying to scare me.”
“Didn’t mean to. It’s just that this feels like a very strange case. And between kids racing their cars on a half-frozen lake and a couple of home invasions to investigate, I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
“Well, let’s put some bacon and eggs on your plate right now. Give you some protein to speed you through the day.” Suzanne turned to the pass-through and called in an order to Petra. And thought about what Doogie had just said. That the killer could have come here for breakfast or could be on his way in for lunch. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
Or was there?
CHAPTER 4
“DIDN’T you just do that?” Toni asked.
Suzanne turned toward her, a piece of yellow chalk clutched in her hand. “Do what?”
Toni gestured at the chalkboard, where brightly colored puffy letters danced across the black surface and starbursts highlighted some of the specials. “Print the menu.”
“You see how time flies when you’re having fun?” Suzanne said. “This is the luncheon menu I’m putting up.”
Toni’s eyes goggled and she hastily looked at her watch. “Holy smokes, is it that late?” She tapped a finger against the crystal. “Dang thing stopped on me again.”
“Is that the watch Junior gave you for your birthday?”
“Yeah. Although I think he got it from one of those claw machines at the county fair. Fished it out of a pile of junky cigarette lighters, Kewpie dolls, and tin belt buckles.”
“Maybe he got it at the pawnshop.”
“Junior does love his pawnshops,” Toni agreed. “If he’s
not buying something he can’t afford, he’s trying to hock something. Tools, tires, fishing gear, an outboard motor.” She took a step back and squinted at the board. “What’s that say? Parrot soup?”
“Carrot soup,” Suzanne said. “Along with chicken meatballs, a black and blue burger, and a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. Oh, and a winter salad plate.”
“Guys don’t generally dig salads.”
“This one is fairly hearty. It’s got apple bits, walnuts, feta cheese, dried cranberries, and a balsamic vinegar dressing. Besides, if guys don’t like it, they can just order something else. Here.” Suzanne handed Toni her piece of chalk. “Why don’t you finish up while I run into the Book Nook and unpack all those boxes that UPS unceremoniously dumped on our doorstep this morning?”
Once she was in the Book Nook, Suzanne grabbed a knife and busied herself with slitting open all the cartons. Then she set about shelving the new arrivals. There was something very satisfying about the shiny, colorful book jackets and the way the shelves came newly alive with gardening, mystery, romance, and history books. She was also glad to see that copies of Kiss the King by Carmen Copeland, a local romance writer, had arrived. In fact, the publisher had shipped an entire case of Carmen’s books.
Suzanne decided she’d have to schedule a book signing for Carmen, though sometimes those events could turn slightly unpleasant. Carmen, who lived in a sprawling Victorian mansion in the nearby town of Jessup, was a wealthy, somewhat snobby one percenter who never let the other 99 percent forget it.
With all the new volumes shelved, Suzanne grabbed a few children’s books so she could make a Christmas display. The Book Nook had limited space, but she’d managed to cram in a couple of rump-sprung easy chairs along with a battered wooden table. That table now held a small, twinkling Christmas tree along with some cotton batting that was meant to represent drifting snow.
As Suzanne hummed along, adding a couple of fuzzy reindeer to the display, as well as a few kids’ picture books that were all about reindeer, her thoughts circled back to last night’s catastrophe. She’d tried to dredge her memory for some sort of clue that would help Doogie; she really had. But nothing had surfaced yet. Maybe if she put what had been a harrowing experience on her brain’s back burner, something would eventually pop. Hopefully it would, because Doogie seemed to be counting on her.