by Laura Childs
“I’m not.”
“You sure seem to be pleading her case.”
“I’m funny that way,” Suzanne said. “I have a soft side for underdogs and people who are wrongfully accused.” She knew that if she argued any more, Doogie would dig in his heels and get obstinate. So she said instead, “You must have other suspects.”
Doogie leaned forward across the counter. “Don’t breathe a word of this to Toni, but Junior was heard making disparaging remarks about Allan Sharp the other night at Schmitt’s Bar.”
“Toni already knows about that. And for your information, that’s just Junior shooting off his fool mouth. He might cuss and talk tough, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Those are the kinds of guys sitting on death row, Suzanne. Those are the ones who profile as serial killers, sweet to their hound dogs and old grannies but hostile to the civilized world.”
“Not Junior.”
Doogie took a sip of coffee. “Still, that boy does seem to be a few bricks short of a full load.”
Suzanne flipped open her order pad. “What’s it going to be today, Sheriff? The crab cakes or the egg drop soup?”
Doogie waved one of his big paws. “Aw, can you have Petra grill me a burger?”
“It’s not on the menu, but I suppose we can manage.” Doogie never ordered off the chalkboard like a regular customer. Instead, he acted like he was some big-shot Hollywood producer who’d swaggered into Spago or the Ivy, where the chefs were falling all over themselves, happy to cater to his every whim.
“And have Petra throw a slice of Muenster cheese on my burger, too. And some fried onions. While she’s at it, she may as well add an order of home fries on the side.”
“Very heart-healthy,” Suzanne said.
Doogie wasn’t amused. “Yeah, yeah.”
Toni sidled up to them on her way to the kitchen. “You’re kind of a light eater, Sheriff.”
Doogie turned, looking slightly pleased. “You think?”
“As soon as it gets light you start eating,” Toni cackled.
“Gosh darn it, Toni, I don’t have to take crap from you,” Doogie snorted.
“Hey, did I tell you about my new exercise routine?” Toni asked. She leaned forward and grinned. “Every day I do diddly-squat.”
* * *
• • •
ONCE the lunchtime crowd began to dwindle, Suzanne ducked out and drove over to Don Shinder’s law firm. The offices of Sharp Shinder and Young were located in downtown Kindred, in one of the rehabbed brick buildings that lined Main Street.
She entered the lobby, checked the register, and walked up a flight of polished wooden stairs. At the top of the stairs were a pair of smoked glass doors that were inscribed Sharp Shinder and Young.
A young woman looked up from behind a wooden counter. “Help you?” she asked.
“I’m here to see Don Shinder. Suzanne Dietz.”
“Of course. He’s expecting you,” the girl said. “Hang on a sec while I buzz him.”
Two seconds later, Shinder was front and center. He greeted Suzanne, then led her through a doorway and down a wood-paneled hallway into his office. Tall windows let in scads of daylight, which played against a lovely buff-colored brick wall. There were two old-fashioned barrister bookcases that held papers and books, as well as two brown leather chairs that faced Shinder’s desk. Suzanne sat down in one of the chairs and faced him.
“This is a lovely old building,” Suzanne said. “How long have you been here?”
“We signed a lease, let’s see, two years ago,” Shinder said. “Got three more years to go.”
“So you’re planning to keep this office space? Even though Allan . . .” Suzanne’s words trailed off when she saw Shinder’s downcast look. He really was taking his partner’s death hard.
“Look at this,” Shinder said. He jumped up and tapped a framed photo that hung on the wall. “It’s when Allan and I went fishing for marlin down in Cabo San Lucas.”
Suzanne stood up and studied the photo; then she moved on to a second one. This photo showed the two of them, tan and happy-looking, hoisting bottles of Cerveza beer on an outdoor patio, the Pacific Ocean sparkling in the background. There was another photo of the two of them posing in front of a slot machine along with two bored-looking showgirls in glitzy gold costumes and plumed headdresses.
“That was taken when Allan and I attended the Midwest Law Conference in Las Vegas,” Shinder said. He shook his head and tears sparkled in his eyes. “I’m really gonna miss that guy.”
Shinder beckoned for Suzanne to sit back down. He sat down heavily and rested his elbows on his desk, pushing aside large stacks of paperwork that threatened to tip over.
“I’m curious,” Suzanne said. “About a former employee of yours. Amber Payson.”
“I know she’s a suspect,” Shinder said right away.
“So Sheriff Doogie informed me,” Suzanne said. “But I’d like to know what you think.”
Shinder put his chin in his hand and leaned sideways in his chair, as if considering Suzanne’s request. “I never got to know Amber very well,” he said. “Allan hired her . . . what?” He scratched his chin. “I guess six or seven months ago, but she only ended up staying something like three months.” He shrugged. “What can you do when these . . . what’s the term for them? Millennials? They job hop constantly.” He shook his head. “I find it strange but they’re very big on job hopping.”
“I understand Amber resigned.”
“Is that so?”
“Excuse me, but I thought you worked with her.” Suzanne was confused. It was a four-person office and one of the partners didn’t know Amber had resigned?
“Not at all,” Shinder said. “Amber worked for Allan. Her desk was right outside his office. As you can see, I’m on the far side. Our semiretired partner’s office is in the middle.”
“That would be Pete Young? Where is he now?”
“Down in Islamorada, Florida. Probably catching bonefish even as we speak.”
“Whatever the office arrangement was, I can’t believe Amber would have such hard feelings for Sharp that she’d actually plot to kill him,” Suzanne said.
“That’s the crazy thing,” Shinder said. “I get clients in here every day who swear on a stack of Bibles that they’re innocent, that they have no idea who could have killed their wife or embezzled the company finances. And you want to believe them . . . I want to believe them. And then the evidence begins to mount against them and you think, ‘Jeez, this case isn’t a slam dunk after all. If we’re lucky it’s going to be a plea bargain.’” He paused, looking a little disheartened. “It’s a darn shame.”
“Actually, it sounds soul crushing,” Suzanne said.
“It can be.”
Suzanne got down to the real business at hand, which was showing Shinder the menu she’d drawn up for Allan Sharp’s visitation. It was fairly straight ahead, three varieties of tea sandwiches—chicken salad, ham salad, and cucumber and cream cheese—along with brownie bites and coffee.
“Are you going to have those church basement funeral bars?” Shinder asked.
Suzanne frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know. Those graham cracker bars with nuts they always serve in church basements after a funeral.”
“Okay, we can definitely include something like that.”
Suzanne went on to explain that everything would be easy to transport from the Cackleberry Club’s kitchen to what would probably be a hastily set-up folding table at the back of the funeral parlor.
“Good, very good,” Shinder said as Suzanne continued talking. But in the long run he wasn’t much interested in hearing any details. His responses were merely polite and pro forma.
Suzanne decided that Don Shinder must be very sad indeed over losing his partner.
C
HAPTER 8
BY the time Suzanne got back to the Cackleberry Club, afternoon tea was almost finished. A half-dozen tables were occupied and Toni had set out the good Coalport china and was using the fancy Chinese blue and white teapots. Suzanne was just about to put on an apron and help Toni when the phone rang.
It was Amber. And of course she wanted to know if Suzanne had made any progress.
“Not really,” Suzanne told her, a blip of worry making her heart contract. “I talked to Sheriff Doogie over lunch and he said you were a suspect by dint of someone phoning in a tip.”
“A tip about me?” Amber sounded startled. “Who would do that?”
“I have no idea. Doogie said it was an anonymous tip.”
“Then it’s no tip at all,” Amber said, bristling. “It’s somebody being horribly mean . . . some crackpot playing a joke.”
“And a pretty bad joke at that. Unfortunately, Doogie seems to be taking the tip seriously.” Suzanne paused. “Amber, when you spoke with Sheriff Doogie, you should have told him about the unwanted advances from Allan Sharp.”
“I just couldn’t. It’s too embarrassing.” She paused. “Did you tell him?”
“No, but I think it’s time that you made it perfectly clear to Sheriff Doogie that you left the law firm under duress. And that even though you might have felt unhappy about Allan Sharp’s actions, there’s no way you would ever be angry or impulsive enough to consider any form of retaliation.”
“You want me to call Doogie up and say all that?” Amber asked.
“No, I want your attorney to handle it. Couched in careful legalese that will hopefully extricate you from what could turn into a very bad situation.”
“I thought you were going to help me.”
“I just don’t think I’m the one you want on your side,” Suzanne said.
“I really have to call an attorney?” Amber asked in a small voice.
“And you can always talk to me, too,” Suzanne hastened to say. “But purely for moral support.”
“I suppose that’s fair advice,” Amber said in a tone that sounded completely dispirited, as if she knew Suzanne was trying to bail on her.
“You know what?” Suzanne said. “Why don’t you come to our Christmas Tea tomorrow? We can talk some more afterward, see what we can figure out.” Amber sounded so disheartened that Suzanne knew she had to do something to help boost the girl’s spirits.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Come as my special guest. Gratis. I promise the tea will be lots of fun. Missy has even promised to stage a surprise fashion show.”
“Thank you, Suzanne. That’s very kind of you. I look forward to it.”
* * *
• • •
JUST as Suzanne was standing behind the counter, sorting through tins of Assam and oolong tea, Teddy Hardwick, the director of A Christmas Carol, came bustling in. He wore a navy pea coat with a beige cashmere scarf draped artfully around his neck and carried a large shopping bag. His expression was intense and he looked discombobulated.
“Teddy,” Suzanne said. “Can I offer you a nice cup of tea to warm you up and help you relax? And I think . . . I’d have to check with Petra on this . . . but we might be able to scrounge up a raspberry scone.”
Teddy shook his head. “No time, Suzanne. I’m out canvassing the town, trying to hustle up interest for a replacement Scrooge. I already asked Sheriff Doogie if he’d step in, but he claims he’s way too busy, what with investigating Allan Sharp’s murder.”
“Actually, it sounds more like a conflict of interest,” Suzanne said.
Teddy waved a hand as if to dismiss that thought. “What I’m wondering now is, do you think Sam would be willing to take over the part?”
“I guess you’d have to ask Sam,” Suzanne said.
“But you’d put in a good word for me? You’d kind of encourage him?”
“You want me to twist his arm?”
Hardwick smiled, lots of teeth but very little warmth. “That’d be wonderful if you could do that, Suzanne.”
Wonderful for you, not so good for Sam.
“I’ll pitch him on the idea,” Suzanne said. “But I can’t promise anything.” She doubted that Sam would want to play the part of Scrooge. Learn all those lines in just a matter of days? And then there was the precedent of the recently murdered Scrooge to consider.
“Is Petra around?” Hardwick asked.
“We pretty much keep her locked in the kitchen.”
Hardwick looked antsy as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “Could you tell her that I’m here? It’s pretty important.” He held up the bag. “I need to talk to her about a costume change for the play.”
Suzanne leaned forward and called through the pass-through. “Petra. Teddy Hardwick needs to talk to you. He says it’s important.”
Petra’s voice floated back to them. “I’ll be right there.”
* * *
• • •
WHILE Petra took Hardwick into the Knitting Nest for a discussion about costumes, Suzanne served coffee and a scone to a trucker who had pulled in for coffee and cake but was thoroughly won over by Toni’s description of their chocolate chip scones. Or it could have been Toni’s low-cut green silk blouse with the yellow embroidered roses that sealed the deal.
Then the front door swung open to reveal a familiar figure.
“Dale,” Suzanne said. It was Dale Huffington, who worked as a guard at the nearby Jasper Creek Prison. He was a big guy, pleasant-natured, with a friendly, open-looking face.
“Am I too late?” he asked.
Suzanne waved Dale over to the counter. “You’re late, but I’m sure we can scrounge something up for you.” She called to Toni, who was bustling around in the kitchen now. “Are there any scones left?”
“No,” Toni said. “Sorry.”
Dale plopped down on the middle stool and put his elbows on the counter. “Coffee and a cookie is good,” he said.
“Did you just get off work?” Suzanne asked. She poured the last of the coffee into a large ceramic mug and plated a sugar cookie for Dale.
“Yep, they’re changing schedules again. You never know when you’re supposed to be on duty. Could be daytime, could be midnight.”
“Must make things difficult for you,” Suzanne said. She put the coffee and cookie in front of him.
“It surely does. Especially since I got that part in the play,” Dale said. “I’ve already missed three rehearsals. Now with the Allan Sharp thing . . . well, you were there that night. You saw what a mess it was, everybody running around in a blind panic. Who knows what’s going to happen now?” He took a bite of cookie. “If you ask me, the play might even get cancelled.”
“I don’t think so,” Suzanne said. “Teddy Hardwick is meeting with Petra in the Knitting Nest right now. Something about a costume change, I guess.”
Dale looked encouraged. “So the play is still set to go on?”
“Apparently. Though Teddy Hardwick still hasn’t recast the Scrooge role.” Suzanne gave a rueful chuckle. “He was lobbying me to try and talk Sam into being our new Scrooge.”
“Aw, Sam’s not near enough cranky to play that role.”
“What with Sam’s schedule, I don’t think he’d even consider it,” Suzanne said. “But I feel bad for Hardwick. I mean, he’s down to the final hours. Plus, he pretty much saw everything unravel. It must have been awful to watch the star of your play murdered before your very eyes.”
“Well, he didn’t exactly see it,” Dale said. He took a slurp of coffee and another bite of cookie.
“What do you mean?” Suzanne asked. “Sure he did.”
Dale waved his cookie in front of him. “No, no. I don’t think Hardwick was sitting out front when that ghost attacked Allan Sharp.” Golden crumbs tumbled down the front of his shirt.
<
br /> “Sure he was,” Suzanne said. “He said he was. At least I think he did.”
But Dale was sticking to his story. “No, ma’am. I was in the audience with the rest of the cast members. Didn’t see hide nor hair of Hardwick until afterward.”
“Then where the heck was he?”
“Backstage with you, I guess.” Dale chewed the last bite of cookie. “Do you have any more of these, Suzanne?”
“That was the last one,” Suzanne said in an absent tone. Dale’s words had thrown her for a loop. Because Hardwick definitely hadn’t been backstage with her. At least she didn’t recall seeing him. So where had Hardwick been? She didn’t like the crazy direction her suspicious mind wanted to go. But . . . could there have been a problem, an issue, between Hardwick and Allan Sharp? Was that possible?
“Suzanne?” Dale said. “Seems like you kind of drifted away for a minute.”
“Sorry, Dale. How about I get you a brownie instead? On the house.”
“Sure. That’d be great.”
As Suzanne grabbed a brownie for Dale, she continued to wonder about Teddy Hardwick. And worried about the funny vibe that was rattling through her brain, conjuring up strange ideas.
“I was just thinking,” Dale said, snatching up his brownie, “that Hardwick’s got a lot going on right now, poor guy.”
“You mean with directing the play? Recasting Scrooge?”
“That’s not even half of it. He’s having major problems with the developer who built his town house.”
“What do you mean?” Suzanne said.
“Yeah, Hardwick’s only lived in his new place for, like, seven months and the foundation’s already cracked in two spots,” Dale said. “You know how that happy crap goes. If it doesn’t get fixed pronto, it’ll turn into a real mess. Groundwater seeps in and then it’s only a matter of time before the whole dang house collapses.”
“Do you have any idea who the developer is?”
Dale shook his head. “No idea. But whoever built those places, they’re in for a boatload of trouble.” He chewed some more. “And lawsuits up the wazoo.”