by Laura Childs
“You all set for your big party tomorrow night?” Gregg asked, as he slipped on vinyl gloves and began mixing hair color.
“I wish,” said Suzanne. After she left here she was going to zap back to the Cackleberry Club and carve pumpkins. Then rush home to get ready for her date with Sam, hoping and praying she didn’t get pumpkin goo stuck in her soon-to-be newly blonded hair.
“We’re planning to be there,” said Gregg, glancing at his partner, Brett, who was busy cutting the hair of the woman in the chair next to them. “Aren’t we.”
“That’s right,” said Brett. He was the polar opposite of Gregg, short and dark, a dynamo with a long ponytail draped down his back. “And if we don’t get our act together and figure out a costume, we’ll be forced to come as gay hairdressers. Heaven forbid!”
“At least we have dates” said Gregg. “I hope our Suzanne here has been eyeing the local rogue’s gallery for potential male companionship.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Suzanne laughed.
Sensing a shift in Suzanne’s dating status, Gregg, ever on the prowl for good gossip leaned closer to her. “Who is it, sweetie? Someone we know?”
“Sam Hazelet,” said Suzanne. She couldn’t help smiling at her reflection in the mirror.
“I heard that!” said Brett. “And may I just say the man has no business whatsoever being a doctor.”
“Excuse me?” said Suzanne.
“Because,” said Brett, “the man is drop-dead gorgeous. He should be a movie star at the very least!”
“I’ll tell him you said so” Suzanne laughed again.
Brett suddenly looked worried. “No, don’t! Forget I said anything at all!”
* * *
“Space alien.” Gregg laughed some twenty minutes later. “If I leave the foils in your hair you can go as a space alien tomorrow night.”
‘Too bad I already have a costume, though it needs a bit of tweaking,” said Suzanne.
“Are we going to wax your brows today?” Gregg asked, as he untwisted the foils. “Or better yet, let me tint them? They are a tad light. Darkening them would give you better definition. Of course, so would a shot of Botox between those nonexistent brows.”
“No, thanks,” said Suzanne. Her eyes flicked toward Gregg. “Gregg, what does Tortuga mean to you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Turtle?”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“Well, is that the right answer?”
“I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “It’s something I’m still puzzling out.”
Gregg pulled out the last foil. “It also makes me think of tattoos,” he added.
Suzanne crinkled her brows. “Really? How so?”
“You know, a tattoo as a symbol.” He thought for a moment. “Like a tribal thing, you know? Tribal motifs are very popular right now.”
“I never thought of it that way,” said Suzanne, “but I suppose a turtle can be quite symbolic.”
“Sure, like in Native American culture,” Gregg pointed out
“Then it might even be spiritual,” said Suzanne.
“What’s spiritual?” asked Brett, as he eased his way over to steal a scissors.
“A turtle. Or a turtle tattoo,” said Gregg.
“Oh sure,” said Brett. “Like that big guy has on his arm.” They exchanged knowing glances with each other.
“What are you talking about?” Suzanne asked.
“He means the guy from the prison,” said Gregg. “The big, bald guy.”
That answer pretty much rocked Suzanne’s world. “Lester Drummond?” she said, her voice rising in surprise. “The warden?”
Gregg smiled back at her in the mirror. “That’s it!”
Chapter Twenty Seven
Suzanne glanced into the rearview mirror and checked herself for about the twentieth time. Makeup? Fine. Lips? Thinly veneered with L’Oreal’s Berry Burst lip gloss. Hair? Deliciously honeyed thanks to Gregg’s fine hand.
She’d parked her Ford Taurus on the street directly across from Schmitt’s Bar and knew that Sam was already waiting inside. His BMW was both sandwiched and dwarfed between a Ford F-150 and a Chevy Silverado right in front of the place.
Grabbing her bag, Suzanne climbed out of her car and jogged across the street, feeling upbeat and a little jazzed, hoping she looked casually chic in her suede jacket, designer jeans, and low suede boots.
As she pushed open the door to Schmitt’s and stepped inside, the aroma of beer and sizzling burgers enveloped her immediately, and she was treated to the sound of Trace Adkins playing on the jukebox accompanied by the plinkety-plink backbeat of pinball machines.
Sam was already seated in a wooden booth, a frosty mug of beer in front of him. “Hey there,” he said, when he caught sight of her. He stood up to greet her, put a hand on her shoulder, then leaned forward and gave her a quick peck. “You look great” He beamed like a guy on a first date.
Suzanne’s hand instinctively crept up to her hair. “Thanks,” she said.
“I...” She was about to tell him she’d just had her hair done, then caught herself. Changed her words to, “I was afraid I’d be late.” She slid into the booth across from him and shrugged out of her jacket. Gave him what she hoped was a dazzling smile.
“You want a beer?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Food, too?” he asked. “The ubiquitous greasy burger basket?”
“Of course. With plenty of crunchy onion strings.”
“We’ll throw caution to the wind and forget about HDL tonight.” Sam laughed. He lifted a hand and waved at Freddy, the bartender. Freddy caught his wave and nodded back, loping around the bar, digging a pen and order pad from his bartender’s apron.
“What’s your pleasure, Ms. Dietz?” Freddy asked.
Suzanne grinned in spite of herself. Freddy was a laconic sort, who wore old-fashioned round John Lennon glasses and sported a braided goatee. He was also a student of poetry and philosophy and had once won first prize in an amateur poetry contest the VFW had sponsored as a tribute to World War II veterans.
“Burger basket with everything,” Suzanne told him.
“Same here,” said Sam.
“And to drink?’ Freddy asked.
“Beer for Suzanne, another one for me,” said Sam. When Freddy was gone, he hunched forward and said, “Man, you look terrific.”
Suzanne grinned until she felt her face would crack. She was scared, hopeful, and excited, all rolled into one. She
was also aware that this was their first public appearance together. Their debut. In a small town like Kindred, a Saturday night date, humble though it may be, pretty much announced to the universe that you were a couple.
“People are going to start connecting the dots,” Sam told her, glancing around.
“People tend to do that,” Suzanne agreed.
“You’re not worried?” asked Sam.
Suzanne reached across the table and put a hand on top of his. “I’m a little worried about you,” she said.
Sam furrowed his brows. “How so?”
“I mean, you’re new in town and it’s ... um... awfully early to start a relationship.”
Sam lifted a thumb and rubbed it gently against her hand. Suzanne thought it felt warm and smooth and really quite wonderful.
“If you ask me,” said Sam, “we’re already in a relationship. In fact, I think it pretty much commenced Tuesday night.”
Suzanne blushed and ducked her head. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” said Sam. “And I’d pretty much love to shout it from the rooftops.” When he saw her stricken look, he added, “But I won’t. We’ll take it slow and easy. Let decorum be our watchword.”
“Whew,” she said, doing a pretend cartoon swipe of her forehead.
“So nothing to be nervous about.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” said Suzanne.
“Except for one thing...”
Suzanne to
ok a deep bream. She pretty much knew what was coming.
“Last night,” said Sam. “The dogs. A very bad situation.”
‘Terrible,” Suzanne agreed. “What kind of inhumane person would...”
‘I’m talking about you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t go all wide-eyed and innocent on me,” Sam cautioned. “You know exactly what I’m talking about In fact, we touched on it this morning. It chills me to know you were the one who discovered Wilbur Halpern shot to death and that you got yourself into another problematic situation last night with those dogs.” When Suzanne started to launch a pro forma protest, Sam grabbed her hand again and said, “Listen, sweetheart, I don’t want to be called to the emergency room and find out the patient I’m treating is you.”
“I don’t relish the idea of ending up there, either,” said Suzanne, wondering if she should spill the beans about her little foray into Chuck Peebler’s house. Maybe some things were better left unsaid?
But when the burger baskets arrived, the need to tell him burned strong. Suzanne wanted to be completely straight with Sam. Deception was never a smart way to begin a relationship. Just look at Toni and Junior.
“There’s something else I need to tell you ...”
Sam glanced at her, mid-bite in his burger. “Is it serious?’ His words came out, “Is it sherioush?”
“I think so.”
“Oh boy.” He chewed quickly and swallowed.
“Here’s the thing,” said Suzanne. “You know I’ve been worried about Sheriff Doogie.”
“Okay.”
“Doogie’s been taking a lot of flack about not coming up with a suspect in Peebler’s death, plus he’s extremely ripped up over Deputy Halpern.”
“Sure,” said Sam, “it’s what you’d expect. Logical human emotions.”
Suzanne continued. “So I offered to help him.”
“In what way?” Sam asked, suddenly on the alert.
Suzanne shrank back in the booth. “I offered to go into Chuck Peebler’s house and look around? See if I couldn’t find some sort of clue?”
“Offered?” asked Sam. “Or did.”
“Did,” said Suzanne. “Yesterday afternoon, right before Torn and I went looking for pumpkins and ended up finding dogs.”
Sam gazed at her in horror. “You’re telling me you went into the deserted house of a murder victim?”
“Well, Doogie did give me the key.”
“He what!” Sam ducked his head and said, “Doogie’s off his rocker! He’s completely lost it!”
“I kind of nudged him,” Suzanne admitted.
“You’re really something,” said Sam. He grabbed a paper napkin, blotted at his lips.
Suzanne thought she might be off the hook, but Sam suddenly turned deadly serious.
“How did you know someone wasn’t waiting for you inside that house?” Sam asked. “How do you know someone didn’t see you go in?’
Suzanne shook her own head in disbelief. “I guess I didn’t. I don’t. My mind didn’t go in that direction at all.” She paused. “But I did find something that perked my interest”
“What?” Sam asked! He was still sitting back from the table, as if he was slowly digesting everything Suzanne was telling him.
Suzanne dug in her purse and pulled out the Post-it note. “This,” she said, extending her hand and sticking the note on the back of Sam’s hand.
He peered at it speculatively, like an entomologist might peer at a bark beetle. “Tortuga?”
“It was tucked in the frame of Peebler’s bedroom mirror.”
Sam’s eyes darted toward her again. “You went in his bedroom?”
“It was an investigation? she said.
“Still...”
Picking up her burger, Suzanne said, “There, now you know everything. No secrets, no hidden agenda, everything on the up-and-up.” She took a nibble. “A clean slate.”
“So what’s the meaning of Tortuga?” Sam asked.
“No idea, but I found out that Lester Drummond sports a turtle tattoo.”
“The prison warden?” Sam looked thoughtful. “And you think there’s a connection?”
Suzanne smiled to herself. “That’s what I’d like to find out.”
“You’re incorrigible,” said Sam.
“Sorry,” said Suzanne. “That’s me. It’s a package deal.”
He gave her a wink. “Some package.”
They relaxed and ate their burgers then, relegating the two murders and Suzanne’s investigation to the back burner for the time being.
And they talked. About Suzanne’s plans for the Cackleberry Club and her dream of someday opening Crepes Suzanne, a small fine-dining restaurant. Sam told her about his residency at Massachusetts General and then they traded small talk and onion strings.
“This is a great place,” said Sam, leaning back, looking relaxed. His red plastic burger basket was heaped with paper napkins. “Greasy, but nice.” He glanced up at a battered metal sign that said, Your Burger Is Ready When the Smoke Alarm Goes Off, and grinned.
“Nobody does a burger basket like Schmitt’s,” agreed Suzanne.
“Not even the Cackleberry Club?’
“We do burgers, but they’re of the chicken and turkey variety.”
“Ah,” said Sam, “the healthy stuff.”
‘Petra says she doesn’t want to be responsible for causing coronary thrombosis or myocardial infarctions all over town.”
“Nice of her, though it does impact my business.”
“She also says .. “A loud whump suddenly rattled the front windows of the bar, then bright orange flared in the street. “What was that?’ Suzanne cried.
“Fire?” said Sam. “Explosion?’
Everyone in the bar seemed to jump up at once and scramble for the front door, causing a good deal of panic and an alcohol-fueled traffic jam. By the time Suzanne and Sam elbowed their way out, flames were shooting thirty feet into the air!
“That’s my car!” Suzanne screamed, gazing at the angry fireball that, forty minutes earlier, had been her beloved Ford Taurus. The one she’d sometimes called Cynthia. “My car!” she cried again, as she tried to rush toward it.
Sam caught Suzanne by the shoulders and pulled her back with a firm grip. “Don’t,” he said. “It’s gone.”
“But...” Her arms fluttered futilely.
Within a matter of minutes they heard sirens. Then an enormous fire engine roared down Main Street, its horn
making flat blats. As it rocked to a stop, four volunteer firemen jumped from the cab. Hoses were unfurled, wrenches clanked against fire hydrants, and great gluts of water began to surge. But it was all too little, too late. All the oil and grease and gas had burned like a cheap cheeseburger on Freddy’s grill.
“Poor car,” Suzanne mourned.
“Better we should go back inside,” said Sam.
Suzanne shook her head. No. She wanted to watch. “I’m ...I’m in shock,” she told him.
Sam did a quick check of her pulse, respiration, and skin pallor. “Emotional shock “was his final diagnosis.
The wail of another siren caused everyone to crane their necks.
A maroon-and-gold sheriff car careened up, stopped in the middle of the street, and Sheriff Doogie hopped out Dressed in civvies, he wore blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt that said, This isn‘t a beer gut, it’s a liquid grain storage facility. Stalking over to the burned-out car, Doogie surveyed the wreckage, then stomped back toward Schmitt’s Bar, trying not to stumble over the tangle of fire hoses. When he caught sight of Suzanne, he said, “Isn’t that your car?”
“It was my car,” said a glum Suzanne.
“What the hale holy hector happened?” Doogie demanded. Then, without giving Suzanne time to answer, said, “You start smoking again, Suzanne?”
Suzanne shook her head. “Hardly.”
Doogie looked puzzled. “You notice any burning smell when you parked that thing? Any engine lights come on?
Or maybe the muffler was shot?”
“No.”
“This looks fairly suspicious,” Doogie said, as one of the firemen continued to pour water on the smoldering wreck. “Could have even been intentional?”
“Gee,” Suzanne said, under her bream. “You think?”
“What?” said Doogie, staring into the crowd, as if he might pick out a guilty face or two. “Huh?”
“You don’t think it was random vandalism?” Sam asked.
“Not sure,” said Doogie, “although if I was a kid who wanted to cause a heck of a commotion I might have set my sights on this BMW here.” He gestured with an upturned thumb at Sam’s car.
“Thanks a lot,” said Sam.
Suzanne didn’t want to leave, of course, but the crowd was piling back into Schmitt’s Bar, the really big excitement concluded for the night. Finally, Sam convinced Suzanne to climb into his car. By that time she was shaking from the cold and looking more than a little lost.
“I’ll take you home,” he told her, in a voice that was both sympathetic and tender.
“You’ll stay over?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “That’s what I want.”
He turned the key, cranked up the heater, and pulled away from the curb slowly. As they drove past the smoldering remains of Suzanne’s car, Sam said, “Do you think it was random?”
Suzanne stared at the burned-out hulk. “No, I don’t,” she said in a whisper.
Sam put an arm around her and pulled her closer. “Deliberate?”
“Yes.”
“But why pick on you? On your car?”
“Because,” said Suzanne, “it was meant to be a warning.”
Chapter Twenty Eight
Suzanne woke to crumpled sheets, warm memories, and an empty bed.
She let out a gasp. Oh no!
It crossed her mind that her romance, her fling, her whatever wonderful thing it might have been, was suddenly ancient history. Then a dazzling man wearing a tight T-shirt and an even tighter pair of jeans appeared in her bedroom doorway holding a steaming mug of coffee.