Eggs on Ice

by Laura Childs

  “Amber denies anything and everything,” Suzanne said. “Swears she hasn’t seen Sharp in several weeks.”

  “Do you believe her?” Petra asked.

  “I don’t know,” Suzanne said. “I think so. I’d really prefer to give Amber the benefit of the doubt.”

  Petra pulled a pan of biscuits from the oven and set it on the butcher-block table next to Suzanne. “I need to tell you something. A few weeks ago, I heard a rumor about Amber.”

  Suzanne was taken aback. “What did you hear?”

  “That she and Allan were going steady,” Petra said. “That they were officially an item.”

  “Where did you hear this?” Suzanne asked.

  “At church,” Petra said. “After bingo.”

  Toni shook an index finger at her. “That’s not a very churchy thing to spread around.”

  Petra gazed at her. “Which is why I never said anything about it, why I never repeated what was probably a stupid, empty rumor.”

  Suzanne considered Petra’s words. Could Amber have lied to her? Was there a bigger story here than she’d been led to believe? And if so, what exactly was going on? Because stabbing someone for payback seemed way over the top. What someone in law enforcement would term “overkill.”

  “You know,” Suzanne said, “Missy Langston was the one who sent Amber to me for help. Missy essentially vouched for her.”

  “Missy is a sweetheart,” Petra said. “And trustworthy, too.”

  “Yes, she is,” Suzanne said. “She even offered to do a fashion show at our Christmas Tea.”

  “Just like that?” Toni asked.

  “She meant it as a trade-off,” Suzanne said. “If I’d try to get Doogie off Amber’s back, then she’d help us with the fashion show.”

  “Are you sure that’s a fair quid pro quo?” Petra asked. “You’d be sticking your neck out . . .”

  “I already made up my mind to help Amber,” Suzanne said. “Even before Missy offered to do a fashion show.”

  “So both things are a done deal,” Petra said.

  “I like the idea of a fashion show,” Toni said. “It’ll add extra panache to our Christmas Tea.”

  “I’m just worried about Suzanne,” Petra said. “Getting dragged into the Allan Sharp case.”

  Toni favored Suzanne with a sly look. “Maybe she wants to get dragged in?”

  Suzanne didn’t say a word. She was too busy thinking. Wondering who was trying to heap blame on Amber’s head. And what exactly was their reason for doing so? The easy answer, of course, was that it was Sharp’s killer at work. That he’d tried to throw up a smoke screen. But that still begged the question—who was the killer?

  * * *

  • • •

  AS customers began to arrive, Suzanne, Toni, and Petra got to work. Petra cranked up activity in the kitchen while Suzanne and Toni ran orders out to their customers. They remained organized in their tasks, like SEAL Team Six dropping out of a black helicopter to take out the bad guys. Only in this case, the bad guy was whoever had murdered Allan Sharp.

  Just as Suzanne delivered two orders of cheese omelets to table six, Toni waved to her.

  “What?” Suzanne mimed.

  Toni held up the telephone and waggled it back and forth. “Call for you.” She dropped her voice. “It’s some guy. Not Sam.”

  Suzanne came around the counter and grabbed the phone. “This is Suzanne.”

  “Suzanne?” came a deep male voice.

  “Yes,” she said. She couldn’t quite place the voice. A mystery caller?

  “It’s Don Shinder.”

  Holy cats, it’s Allan Sharp’s partner!

  “Mr. Shinder,” Suzanne said, recovering her composure. “You have my deepest sympathies. I am . . . well, all of us at the Cackleberry Club are so very sorry about your partner.” They really weren’t all that sorry, but Suzanne knew condolences were a common courtesy.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Shinder said. “But I’m actually calling for another reason. There’s going to be a visitation for Allan tomorrow night at Driesden and Draper Funeral Home and I was wondering if your restaurant could cater the event.”

  “The event?” Suzanne said. “Tomorrow night?”

  “If this is too short notice . . . I suppose I could call someone else.”

  There isn’t anyone else, Suzanne thought. Unless he went to the Save Mart and bought chips and onion dip.

  “I’m sorry, I’m . . .” Shinder coughed nervously into the phone. “This is difficult for me. I’ve never had to organize anything like this before.”

  Neither have we, but there’s always a first.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shinder,” Suzanne said. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression that we weren’t interested. Of course we’re happy to help in any way we can.”

  “Thank you.” He sounded genuinely relieved.

  “Did you have something special in mind? Desserts or . . . ?”

  “No . . . not really . . .” Shinder’s voice trailed off.

  “You obviously have a lot going on right now,” Suzanne said. “And I’m afraid I’m just making things more difficult by asking questions. Why don’t I put together a quick proposal and drop by your office later today?” It had just occurred to Suzanne that stopping by Shinder’s law firm presented her with a dandy opportunity to ask questions and kick off her own investigation.

  “You’re very kind,” Shinder said.

  “It’s the least I can do,” Suzanne said. “I’ll see you after lunch.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “MAKE way, make way.” The front door bumped open and a huge cardboard barrel appeared in the doorway. It started to push its way through, got hung up, then finally squeezed in. Junior Garrett, Toni’s soon-to-be ex, followed in the barrel’s wake.

  “Junior,” Suzanne said. She was setting up the tables for lunch, keeping an eye on two customers who were just finishing a late breakfast.

  “Got your barrels for you,” Junior said, patting the large cardboard receptacle. “Plus there’s two more out in my truck.”

  “For our toy drive,” Suzanne said, looking pleased. “They look great. Where did you get them?”

  “Bundy Brothers’ Meatpacking.”

  Suzanne made a face. “These came from the meatpacking plant?”

  Junior held up a hand to calm her. “Before you go all off-the-wall bonkers on me, Suzanne, I can assure you these bins are nice and pristine. No hog snouts or chicken guts were ever packed inside them. They’re clean as a whistle, never been used.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Junior half closed one eye and gazed at Suzanne. “Would I lie to you?”

  “Yes,” Toni said. She’d come from the kitchen and was holding a tray of just-washed cups and saucers. “You lie to me all the time.”

  “That’s ’cause we’re married,” Junior said. “That’s what married people do. Make excuses and tell tall tales. But I’d never lie to Suzanne, no, sir.”

  “Right,” Suzanne said. She knew that Junior was basically an overage juvenile delinquent who wasn’t particularly trustworthy. Today he was dressed in his trademark saggy jeans and studded motorcycle boots and had pulled on a ratty plaid jacket. A hank of dark hair dangled over his forehead, a tribute to James Dean, Elvis, and all the bad boys who had come before him.

  “Now that you’re here, I suppose you expect us to provide breakfast,” Toni said.

  “I wouldn’t say no, seeing as how much hard work I done already,” Junior said.

  “Right,” Toni said. “Seeing as how you’re basically unemployed and probably stole those barrels from the warehouse.”

  “Cover them over with fancy Christmas wrap and nobody’ll be the wiser,” Junior said.

  Suzanne decided it was
time to step in. “Why don’t you sit at the counter, Junior, and I’ll have Petra fix you a plate of scrambled eggs.”

  Junior almost broke his leg getting to the counter. “With cinnamon toast?”

  “Sure,” Suzanne said. She figured it was the least she could do. The barrels really were perfect. Now they just had to fill them with toy donations.

  Suzanne called in Junior’s order to Petra and poured herself a cup of coffee. She held it up. “You want coffee, too?” she asked him.

  “Naw, just a Coke.” Junior drank something like a dozen cans of Coke every day. No wonder he was as jittery as a chipmunk on crack.

  Junior spun around on his stool, doing a slow three-sixty. “This is real nice sitting here at the counter. I can see why folks like to come here and enjoy a friendly, educated conversation.”

  “With your tenth-grade education, what would you converse about?” Toni asked. “The works of Aristotle?”

  Junior waved a finger at her. “Don’t go knockin’ that guy. He married Jackie O, didn’t he?”

  Toni just shook her head and retreated to the kitchen.

  When Suzanne set Junior’s eggs and toast in front of him, she said, just to be friendly, “How’s your car wash coming along, Junior?” She knew Junior had been negotiating like crazy to buy the defunct Typhoon Car Wash out on the south edge of town.

  Junior ducked his head, looking dismayed at her question. “Sadly, I had to abandon that dream, what with the cold weather and all.”

  “You know, Junior, most people think it’s important to keep their cars clean in winter, too. All that salt and road gunk is tough on a car’s finish and undercarriage.”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t find any girls who’d work in wet T-shirts during the winter.”

  “Ah.” Suzanne had somehow forgotten that Junior’s dream had been to open either a topless or wet T-shirt car wash. “I see where that might be a problem. For the girls anyway.”

  Junior gave a solemn nod as he tucked into his eggs. “Occupational hazard.”

  “I guess it wasn’t in the cards,” Suzanne said. Thank goodness.

  “That’s the least of my worries right now.”

  “Excuse me?” Suzanne said.

  “I had to up and move my trailer.”

  “You’re not parked out by the town dump anymore?” Junior had been living in a ratty house trailer that had been parked illegally near the dump.

  “Not since this past Saturday. That jerk Allan Sharp evicted me. Claimed he owned the land.”

  “What did you say?” Suzanne demanded. Had she heard Junior correctly? Allan Sharp had evicted him?

  “Yeah, that jerk Sharp got something called an injunction,” Junior babbled on. “I cussed him up and down, but, in the end, Deputy Robertson served me with legal papers and told me I had twenty-four hours to relocate my trailer.” Junior scrunched up his face. “Can you imagine that? I had to borrow Buddy Breggeman’s tow truck and haul my trailer over to my new spot near the old gravel pit. Then I had to jack up the trailer, put it on cement blocks, and hitch up the water line and electrical. Been workin’ on that nonstop for the last three days.”

  Suzanne stared at Junior. “Then you haven’t heard?”

  Junior stuck a finger in one ear and rotated it hard. “Heard what?”

  “Allan Sharp was murdered Sunday night.”

  Junior reacted as if somebody had touched a red-hot wire to his spine. “Say what!”

  “Somebody murdered Allan Sharp,” Suzanne repeated. “Stabbed him with a knife.”

  “I’ll be jim-jammed!” Junior cried, slapping a hand against his chest. “Who’d go and do a thing like that?”

  “A ghost,” Toni said. She’d been listening in on their conversation and had crept back out into the café.

  Junior’s eyes popped open wide as he did an almost cartoon double take. “You mean like a spooky-haunt?”

  “No,” Suzanne said. “Like a person dressed up in a ghost costume.”

  “So you say,” Toni muttered.

  “It happened during dress rehearsal at the Oakhurst Theatre,” Suzanne told Junior.

  “Where?”

  “Right at the end of act two.”

  “I mean where was he stabbed on his person?”

  “Oh,” Suzanne said. “I guess in his stomach. All I know is that major organs were involved.” She grimaced. Were they ever.

  “Jeez,” Junior said. “Are there any suspects?”

  “Probably you,” Toni said, poking at him with an index finger. “I overheard your remark about how you cussed out Allan Sharp because he made you move your trailer. I hope you didn’t go spouting off about that in public.”

  Junior looked sheepish. “Ah jeez . . . I may have let fly a few choice words when I was in Schmitt’s Bar Saturday night. Of course, that’s ’cause I was in a relaxed state after downing a couple of crapple bombs.”

  “You didn’t just fall out of the stupid tree,” Toni said. “You were dragged through dumb-ass forest.”

  Junior hung his head. “It was only a few drinks.”

  “You were off on a toot,” Toni said. “Jeez, Junior, the last thing we need is a murder suspect in the family.”

  Junior peered at Toni. “How can you call us a family when we don’t even live together?”

  “Don’t get technical,” Toni said. “And you know darned well why we don’t live together. Because we’re getting a D-I-V-O-R-C-E.”

  “Ah, you’ve been threatening that for three years and it ain’t happened yet.” Junior gave her a cockeyed grin and stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth. “I think you’re still sweet on me.”

  Toni shook a fist at Junior. “One of these days, buster. Just wait and see.”

  Junior focused on Suzanne. “I can’t believe somebody went and killed old Allan Sharp.”

  “Believe it,” Suzanne said.

  “So there must be a big manhunt under way,” Junior said. “Wow. That’s just crazy.”

  “Better keep your head down,” Toni said.

  “Hey, sweet cheeks, you’ll change your tune soon enough when I’m walking around all flush with a pocket full of cash like Daddy Warbucks,” Junior said.

  “What are you talking about?” Suzanne asked. With Junior it was like channel surfing with the sound turned down. You never knew what you were going to get. Could be a documentary on dung beetles, could be a Lifetime movie.

  “I’m going to the Shooting Star Casino tonight—just wait until I win the Mega Millions!” Junior cried.

  “That’s the lottery, dingdong, not the casino,” Toni said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Junior said. “I can feel it in my bones. Something big is going to happen tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Toni said. “You’re probably going to get arrested.”

  CHAPTER 7

  BREAKFAST morphed into lunchtime. Toni buzzed back and forth from the kitchen to the café like a demented hummingbird, all the while grumbling about Junior.

  “That boy’s brain is set on a totally different frequency,” she told Suzanne as they were standing at the pass-through window. “One that none of us can pick up.”

  “Junior doesn’t mean any harm,” Suzanne said. “He’s basically an overgrown kid.”

  “Who sticks his foot in his mouth and gets in trouble as regular as clockwork. Jeez, Suzanne, what if Sheriff Doogie gets wind that Junior was badmouthing Allan Sharp?”

  “Then Junior is probably in deep doo-doo.” But Suzanne wasn’t so much worried about Junior blipping up on Doogie’s radar as Amber already being there. That was clearly a problem.

  Lunchtime rolled around and Petra did the Cackleberry Club proud with her lunch offerings. Crab cakes, slow-cooker sweet-and-sour pork, egg drop soup, and small sausage pizzas topped with a fried egg.

  Suzanne was j
ust taking an order for two of the pizzas when Sheriff Doogie came stomping in. He hastily covered the distance from the front door to the counter and heaved himself onto a stool. Suzanne quickly shoved her order through the pass-through and turned to face Doogie.

  “Anything?” Suzanne asked as she poured him a cup of coffee. It was hot and strong, just the way Doogie liked it.

  Doogie hunched up his shoulders. “I got one suspect, yeah, but I’m sitting on the fence about it.”

  “Amber Payson,” Suzanne said.

  Doogie’s coffee cup was almost to his mouth, but at hearing Suzanne’s words he jerked it away fast, slopping coffee down the front of his khaki shirt.

  “Doggone it, Suzanne!” he exploded. “Look what you made me do. And this shirt was fresh from the laundry. With extra starch.”

  “Amber Payson,” Suzanne said again. Clearly she was on the right track if just the mention of Amber’s name caused Doogie to jump like that.

  “How did you find out about her?” Doogie asked. He was gruff, just this side of angry, as he grabbed a bunch of paper napkins, wadded them up, and sopped at his shirt.

  “I keep my eyes and ears open,” Suzanne said. “But what I really want to know is, how did you find out about her? Who was the jerk who pointed a finger at Amber?”

  “That’s classified information,” Doogie said.

  Suzanne stared at him. “Let me make a wild guess. You received a tip. An anonymous tip.”

  Doogie glowered at her, the skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “For your information it was a tip.”

  “And you happily bought into it?”

  “That’s how law enforcement agencies operate, Suzanne. We get tips that turn into actionable information.”

  “Mixed in with a lot of false accusations,” Suzanne said.

  “Not always.”

  “Amber didn’t murder Allan Sharp. If you waste valuable time questioning her, trying to background her every move for the last month, you’ll let the real killer slip right through your fingers.”

  “Why are you such a cheerleader for Amber Payson?” Doogie asked.