by Laura Childs
“Fourteen hundred annually,” Bonnie said. “Of course, that’d be on top of your mortgage and your monthly HOA.”
“Any liens or foreclosures against the development in general?”
“None that I can see.” Bonnie closed the book. “Are you thinking of picking up stakes and moving? Buying Teddy’s place if it goes up for sale?”
“Maybe,” Suzanne hedged. “I heard him talking about his town house and I started to get curious. Although I understand there are still a couple of brand-new units for sale.”
“That could be tricky,” Bonnie said. “In light of . . .”
“I know. Allan Sharp being the developer. But I figured that since the bank probably handled financing, I could talk to them.”
Bonnie nodded. “That’s exactly right. That’s where I’d start, too.”
Heavy footfalls sounded in the hallway outside the office; then voices boomed loudly. The noise level continued to increase until it exploded into a very heated argument.
Bonnie rolled her eyes.
“What?” Suzanne whispered.
“Mayor Mobley’s yelling his fool head off again,” Bonnie said in a low voice. “That man is always upset about something.”
“I suppose you get quite an earful working here.”
“Do I ever. Before . . . well, when Allan Sharp sat on the city council, he and the mayor used to go at it tooth and nail. Their arguments pretty near blew the roof off this place. I think they even threw a few punches once.”
“The two men really hated each other?” Suzanne asked.
“‘Loathed’ is the word that comes to mind. I don’t know what happened between them; they used to be birds of a feather when it came to cooking up dirty little schemes and bilking the poor taxpayers. But then . . . wham. Suddenly it was World War III and Sharp was constantly haranguing Mobley about financial impropriety.”
“You think there was funny business going on here?”
“I know there was. Is.”
Suzanne rapped her knuckles against the counter. “Thanks for your help, Bonnie.”
“Don’t mention it. You take care now. Say hi to Toni and Petra for me.”
Suzanne walked out into the hallway, where Mayor Mobley was still screaming. His victim was a young man in an oversized suit jacket and wire-rimmed glasses. Mobley was red-faced and gesturing like mad, really ripping him a new one, lost in a bombastic rant. He glanced at Suzanne as she went by him, but nothing seemed to register. He never faltered in his scathing tirade.
Yup, Suzanne thought to herself, that pompous blowhard is definitely a suspect. His anger level is about 7.6 on the Richter scale and his blood pressure has to be off the charts. Which probably puts him in the crazed-killer category.
* * *
• • •
SUZANNE pulled off one glove and dialed her phone from the car. When Toni answered she said, “Hey, it’s me.”
“Who’s me?” Toni asked.
“Very funny,” Suzanne said. “I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way in. I just have one more stop to make.”
“Alrighty, cupcake,” Toni said. “But sooner is better than later. Don’t forget we’ve got our Christmas Tea this afternoon and then we’re catering Allan Sharp’s visitation tonight.”
“On my way.” Suzanne paused. “How did you fare with Junior last night?”
“I can’t even,” Toni said.
“Sorry I asked.”
As Suzanne navigated the slippery streets, a fine snow began to fall, probably due to another chinook that dipped down out of Canada. If this was only early December, what was it going to be like in February? she wondered. Probably ten-foot-high snowdrifts.
Suzanne drove down Arcade Street and eased to the curb in front of Fabrique, Kindred’s one and only fabric store. Not a lot of women sewed their own clothing or draperies these days, yet Fabrique managed to somehow stay in business. In fact, the gold lettering on their front window advertised Fabrics, Draperies, Upholstery Materials, Classes.
Upholstering, Suzanne thought. That’d be the day. She’d watched a demo once, a lady upholstering a wing chair. Punching through heavy fabric with a circular needle, she’d taken teeny-tiny little stitches. Talk about dedication.
When Suzanne walked into Fabrique, the shop was empty of customers but packed to the rafters with bolts of fabric. Colorful felts, corduroys, and wools caught her eye. As well as tartans, checks, calicos, quilted fabrics, flannels, and fleece.
Andrina Chamberlain, the shop’s owner, emerged from the back and hurried to greet Suzanne. She was tall and dark-haired and always had a tape measure slung around her neck and a narrow pair of reading glasses slipping down her nose.
“Suzanne, how are you?” Andrina asked. “What can I help you with? We’re running a terrific special on our quilted fabrics. They’re normally seven ninety-nine a yard, but for the holidays we’ve marked them down to four ninety-nine a yard.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Petra,” Suzanne said. “You know how much she loves to quilt.”
“Don’t I know it,” Andrina said. “She’s one of the movers and shakers behind our annual Quilt Trail.”
“What I’m shopping for today is a little information,” Suzanne said.
“Concerning our classes?” Andrina pushed up her glasses.
“Noooo. I was wondering if anyone, specifically someone of the male persuasion, purchased a few yards of cheesecloth or muslin lately.”
“Funny you should ask. We did have a man in here about a week ago. I remember it quite distinctly because this shop doesn’t generally attract many men.”
“And you remember what this guy bought?”
“Oh yes. It was practically a full bolt of cheesecloth.”
A satisfying ping registered inside Suzanne’s brain. “Was the cheesecloth dark green?” She wondered if someone might have created a ghost costume. An alternate ghost costume.
“Not green,” Andrina said slowly. “Because we only carry it in a natural cream color. But he did ask me about dyeing it. You know, what type of dye to use, do you soak the fabric in a large vat or what?”
Suzanne knew she had to ask. How could she not? “Who was it, do you remember?”
“It was that young man who’s come here to help Reverend Yoder. You know, at the church right across the parking lot from your café.”
“Ethan Jakes,” Suzanne said.
“I believe that’s his name, yes.”
“Did he say what he wanted the cheesecloth for?”
Andrina shook her head. “I just assumed it had something to do with Christmas. Maybe some sort of swag or backdrop for a church pageant? Why, is there a problem?”
“None at all,” Suzanne said. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
* * *
• • •
ALL the way back to the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne’s mind was running in overdrive. Reverend Ethan Jakes had bought almost a full bolt of cheesecloth. But why? What would he use it for? Yes, she knew Jakes had had a nasty tiff with Allan Sharp, but would a man of the cloth (an ironic term in this case) actually commit murder?
Better to find out what the cheesecloth was used for. So she could cross him off her list.
“Hey there,” Petra said when Suzanne walked in the back door. “Look who finally turned up.”
“Apologies,” Suzanne said as she traded her winter coat for a black French waiter’s apron. “Have we been terribly busy?” The kitchen smelled of bacon, warm cinnamon, and melted cheese. In other words, heavenly.
Toni came through the swinging door at that exact moment. “Naw,” she said. “We didn’t do very many covers this morning. Probably because of all the snow. It’s keeping a lot of folks at home.”
“I’m worried about people not showing up for our Christmas Tea this afternoon,” Petr
a said.
“Don’t be. We’re completely sold out,” Suzanne said.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean they’ll all show up,” Petra said. She turned back to her frying pan, where red peppers sizzled alongside rings of sweet Vidalia onion. Garnish for her chicken and wild rice sausages.
Toni, meanwhile, was still jacked up about the big fire last night.
“You should have seen it,” she said to Petra. “Flames shooting almost fifty feet in the air!”
“So you told me,” Petra replied. “About five times already.”
“It was like the fiery tornado in the Bible where it says, ‘I have come to cast fire upon the earth,’” Toni said.
“Luke 12:49,” Petra responded. “But tell me, if Junior’s trailer was completely destroyed, that pretty much leaves him homeless, right?”
Toni nodded. “That’s the awful part of it.”
“So where’s Junior going to live? Can he even afford a room at Motel 6?”
Toni shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe that one room behind the Dumpster that nobody ever wants. Or he might have to rough it and sleep in one of his cars.” Junior had his small collection of junker cars parked behind Matson’s Body Shop.
“Junior’s cars never run properly,” Petra said. “That fool boy will end up carbon monoxiding himself to death.”
“You better tell her,” Suzanne said to Toni.
“Tell me what?” Petra said. A certain tone had crept into her voice.
“I told Junior he could stay with me for a while,” Toni whispered.
“Oh, girlfriend, no.” Petra turned and put a hand on her hip. “You took him in like a stray cat? Say it ain’t so.”
“Just temporarily, until Junior finds himself another trailer.”
“Dear Lord,” Petra said. “That could be decades.”
* * *
• • •
THEY were right on the cusp between breakfast and lunch, so Suzanne busied herself getting ready for their Christmas Tea. Toni (bless her heart) had managed to come in early to string lights and garland around the windows and on the shelves. Now the only thing left to do was put up the Christmas stockings Petra had knitted and hang two dozen or so white cardboard snowflakes from the ceiling. Just as she was dreading dragging out the ladder, Junior came swaggering in.
“Junior,” Suzanne said, pulling out the box of decorations. “How are you doing?”
“Not too bad,” Junior said. “I managed to get a good night’s rest, so I feel halfway recovered from last night.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m very sorry about the fire. Losing your trailer and all your . . . um, stuff.”
“I went out to look at it first thing this morning.” Junior shook his head. “Just ashes and embers, that’s all that’s left. Like you’d see after a weenie roast. Except, of course, the axles are still sitting there.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I dunno. Hang out at Toni’s place, I guess.”
Junior looked like he was at odds and ends. And why wouldn’t he be? No job, no place to call home, no insurance . . .
“Junior, could you . . . would you . . . grab the stepladder and help me hang these snowflakes?” Suzanne asked.
“Sure thing,” Junior said. Then his face took on a cagey expression. “But maybe I could have some breakfast first?”
“Not a problem,” Suzanne said, relieved that he was willing to pitch in and help. “You go sit at the counter over there and yell out to Petra what you want. Hey, are you really feeling okay?”
“I guess,” Junior said. As he wandered over to the counter, he seemed to have a wad of something stuck in his cheek. Chewing tobacco?
Petra leaned through the pass-through and gazed at Junior. “What’s wrong with your teeth?”
“What? Nothing.” Junior snapped his teeth together a couple of times to demonstrate. “See? My choppers are all present and accounted for. Well, I did lose one of my incisors in a motorcycle crash last summer.”
“Are you sure? Because it looks like all your front teeth got knocked out.”
“Naw, I’ve just been eating black licorice.” Junior dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a sticky glob. “Want some?”
“No, thanks,” Petra said. “So, whadya want to eat?”
“Sausage and eggs?”
“Coming right up.”
* * *
• • •
STRANGELY, Junior was as good as his word. As soon as he finished his breakfast, he helped Suzanne wrap Christmas paper around the toy bins and then set up the ladder and began hanging snowflakes from the ceiling. He’d decorated half of the ceiling when Toni came out and said, “You’re doing it all wrong. You’ve got to hang the snowflakes at different lengths. Some should dangle six inches down, some ten inches down.”
Junior eyed his handiwork. “I think they look better when they’re all even.”
“No, they don’t.”
“You don’t have to be so bossy, Toni. I can make a few adjustments.”
But ten minutes later Toni still wasn’t happy.
“Now some of them are too long. People are going to get bashed in the head,” Toni said.
Junior gave her a dismissive look. “Only if they’re going to be walking around the café on stilts. Like some kind of stupid circus act.”
“If at first you don’t succeed, try doing it the way I told you,” Toni said, a trifle harshly.
“Why are you always nagging me?” Junior asked. “Just because you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, you’ve gotta yammer at me about how to do my job? It’s a bummer. Why can’t we work together in peace? Let all the workers have an equal say?”
“Who do you think you are? Leon Trotsky spouting the Communist Manifesto?” Toni shouted. “If you can’t do the job right, then get out!”
Junior scrabbled down the ladder, grabbed his jacket, and strode defiantly out of the Cackleberry Club. As the door slammed shut behind him he was mumbling to himself that it was time to watch The Price Is Right anyway.
“You don’t think you were a little hard on him?” Suzanne asked. She’d watched their squabble from the doorway of the Book Nook.
“You’re probably right,” Toni sighed. “But, holy cow, Junior sure does bring it on himself. This morning, before I even opened my peepers, he managed to knock over a plant stand, mess up the carpet, and break my favorite coffee mug. And then he had the gall to turn around and ask if I’d buy him an Xbox. Just like that. Said he was bored hanging around my place. Already! I was so furious I wanted to rip out his gizzard and fry it up in a pan.” Toni scrubbed at her hair with both hands. “Look at me. Junior’s been under my roof for less than twelve hours and he’s already turned me into a raving shrew.”
Suzanne put an arm around Toni. “Yes, but you’re our little raving shrew.”
CHAPTER 12
“LUNCH is super abbreviated today, right, Petra?” Suzanne asked. Now she was the one peering through the pass-through.
“Just three entrees,” Petra said. “Denver omelets, chicken and waffles, and three-bean chili. Of course we’ve still got our usual complement of sticky buns, scones, and muffins. But I’d feel a lot better if you guys could kind of hurry our lunch guests along.”
“I’ll have Toni wait on them. With the mood she’s in, she’ll have them fleeing like rats from a sinking ship.”
“If it means anything to you,” Toni called out, “I’m over my crabby mood now. I feel a lot more composed.”
Suzanne smiled. “I’m glad Junior didn’t get the best of you.”
“Only my best years,” Toni grumped.
Clearly she wasn’t over it.
Suzanne printed their abbreviated luncheon menu on the blackboard while Toni finished hanging the snowflakes. Then Petra came out to eyeball
the café’s décor.
“Everything looks great,” Petra said. “Very festive. Oh, and, Suzanne, you put up my Christmas stockings.” She smiled at the red stockings that were hung on the walls.
“Of course I did,” Suzanne said. “I know that the money from every sale goes right into your church coffer.”
“Don’t you just adore the yarn I used? It’s beaded mohair from Artyarns,” Petra said.
“And what’s with the little knit teddy bears?” Suzanne asked. “I saw you had a couple sitting by the cash register.”
“Those are part of Operation Cuddle Bear. My knitting group has been making little bears that we give out to the sheriff’s department, fire department, highway patrol, and the EMTs.”
“Um . . . why?” Suzanne asked.
Petra saw the confused look on Suzanne’s face and laughed. “Oh no, the bears aren’t for them. Well, not directly anyway. They’re to be handed out to kids in crisis situations. You know, if there’s been a car accident or fire . . . it helps soften the impact of a disaster.”
“That’s a fabulous idea,” Suzanne said.
Toni had crept up behind them. “You see how the snowflakes are hung at different lengths?” she asked Petra.
“I hadn’t really noticed,” Petra said. She was suddenly shifting from one green Croc to the other, twisting a dish towel between her hands.
“What’s wrong, Petra?” Toni asked. “You look like you’re as nervous as a ceiling fan salesman with a bad comb-over.”
“I think I might be coming down with a case of the collywobbles,” Petra said.
“Is it catching?” Toni asked.
“No, I’m just nervous about serving lunch, then fixing all the tea sandwiches and baking scones for our party,” Petra said. “And then I’ve got to turn around and do it all over again because we’ve got that catering job for Allan Sharp’s visitation tonight.”
“We’ll all pitch in and help,” Suzanne assured her. “We’ll get everything done in no time flat.”
“No time,” Petra said. “That’s the problem.”