Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  “State crime lab,” said Doogie, sniffling slightly.

  “No, I mean in the sink,” said Suzanne. She pointed toward one of a pair of deep, stainless-steel sinks. There appeared to be a soggy mess of ashes in the bottom of one.

  Doogie shook his head, muttered the words, “Doggone hay fever,” then peered into the sink and grimaced. “What is that crap?” He sounded surprised.

  ‘That’s what I just asked you,” said Suzanne.

  “Something was burned in there, then got doused with water,” Doogie mused.

  Deputy Halpern looked over, eager to be more involved. “You want me to clean it up?”

  “No!” snapped Doogie. “We gotta bag it.” He sneezed and glanced around the room. “In fact, we better start bagging everything.”

  “Even what’s left of the cherry pie?” asked Halpern.

  “Wilbur,” said Doogie, and this time he sounded both cranky and tired, “just use a little common sense, will you?”

  A few minutes later George Draper appeared with the hastily summoned Bo Becker. Becker was young, maybe twenty or twenty-one, and good-looking in a blond surfer boy kind of way. He wore pegged jeans, a black T-shirt, and motorcycle boots. Suzanne almost expected to see a cigarette pack, maybe Lucky Strikes, rolled up in his shirt sleeve.

  “Somebody killed Ozzie?” Becker sounded suitably shocked and his expression was wary.

  “You know anything about that?” asked Sheriff Doogie.

  Bo Becker glared in Doogie’s direction. “You accusing me of something, Sheriff?”

  “We have a wrongful death on our hands,” said Doogie in a somewhat matter-of-fact tone. “And quite possibly a number of suspects. If someone in this room is privy to information concerning Ozzie Driesden’s death, it might be best to get it out on the table now. Since it’s only a matter of time before we start handing down indictments and making arrests.” He stared forcefully at Becker. “So, young man, we can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. It’s entirely up to you.”

  “Don’t try to intimidate me,” snorted Becker, “because I don’t know squat about this.” He shook his head like a swarm of gnats was attacking him. “Heck, I liked Ozzie. He gave me a job when not many folks around here would even talk to me. So why would I want to go and kill him? Spoil a good thing? What’s my motive, smart guy?”

  “You don’t need a motive,” said George Draper, finally speaking up. “You’ve been in trouble before. You have a record.”

  Doogie scratched the side of his face and cocked a keen eye toward Becker. “Izat so?”

  “Give me a break,” said Becker. “That was penny-ante shit. Reform school stuff.”

  “Statistics prove that petty criminals almost always graduate to committing felonies,” said Doogie. He sounded like he was reading from a Criminal Justice 101 textbook.

  “Shove your statistics where the sun don’t shine,” snarled Becker, radiating hostility.

  Doogie responded with a thin, reptilian smile, then said, “I think we ought to finish our conversation in a more conducive environment. Say, down at the law enforcement center?” He glanced at Suzanne. “I’ll be in touch with you later.”

  “Sure,” said Suzanne, still feeling a little dazed. She walked past the tumbled boxes, the smeared cherry pie, through the door, and out into the entry hall.

  Petra, who was sitting primly on the fainting couch, gave Suzanne a baleful look. “Somebody’s going to have to tell Missy,” she said in a quiet, gentle voice. Missy, Melissa Langston, was Ozzie Driesden’s girlfriend. Although things seemed to have cooled between the two of them in the past few weeks, Missy would certainly have to be informed. Had the right to be informed.

  “Oh man,” said Suzanne, making a slight grimace. She knew Ozzie’s death was going to come as a terrible blow to Missy.

  “We could have Sheriff Doogie stop by,” suggested Petra, who was standing now, more than ready to leave.

  “Or I’d be happy to speak with Missy,” volunteered George Draper, as he shepherded them toward the door.

  Suzanne and Petra exchanged glances, then Suzanne nodded. “Thank you,” she told Draper. “I think that might be best.” Suzanne was grateful that Draper had so willingly stepped in. He was trained to deal with death and grief, while Sheriff Doogie, as messenger, might just drop the news on Missy like a hot potato. Or handle it like that old joke about the woman who received a telegram then begged the messenger to please sing it to her, because she’d always wanted a singing telegram. The punch line of the joke, of course, was, “Da, da, da, da, dum, Fred and the kids are dead.”

  “Maybe we could ...” began Petra. She was positioned at the front door, about to turn the knob, when it suddenly flew open.

  “Oh dear,” Draper murmured from behind them, as he recognized the woman who’d suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  A plump woman with tough, gray, Brillo-pad hair and wearing a bright purple dress stared silently at Petra and Suzanne. She cradled a large bouquet of pink and white Stargazer lilies in her arms.

  George Draper rushed to greet her. “Mrs. Carr, we weren’t expecting you today.” Suzanne suddenly realized that Nadine Carr was the wife of the corpse in the next room.

  Nadine Carr stared at Draper, then shifted her inquisitive glance to Suzanne and Petra, who had a nodding acquaintance with Nadine. She’d eaten at the Cackleberry Club a couple of times. Maybe purchased some skeins of yarn there, too.

  “Hello,” said Nadine. She hesitated, taking in everyone’s stricken face. “Is ... is something wrong? I saw a sheriff’s car parked outside.”

  “Right this way, Mrs. Carr.” George Draper took Nadine by the arm and gently guided her away. She walked, somewhat unsteadily on two-inch squash heels, toward the parlor where her wizened little husband, in his one good suit, was laid out in a bronze Eternalux casket.

  “This place is suddenly Grand Central Station,” remarked Suzanne.

  “Poor Nadine,” said Petra, staring at the not-quite-closed door. “What do you suppose he’s going to tell her?”

  “Whatever it is,” said Suzanne, “it’s going to come as a bombshell.”

  Suzanne and Petra fell silent and focused their attention on the mumbled conversation that was taking place in that little parlor. Most of the mumbling was being done by Draper and they caught a few words such as “frightful” and “shocking.”

  There were a few moments of silence, then a hoarse outburst of, “Oh no!” as Nadine’s sad words floated back to them. “Dead? Ozzie? I can hardly believe it!”

  “Believe it,” muttered Suzanne, as she breathed a prayer of thanks to the Almighty that she’d been fortunate enough not to be summoned along with poor Ozzie.

  Chapter four

  “Were drugs stolen, too?” asked Toni. Reddish blond hair piled atop her head like a show pony, wearing tight 501 jeans and an equally tight Aerosmith T-shirt, Toni was juggling a Scramble Deluxe and a plate of Jumpin’ Jack Spuds. She teetered on red high-heeled sandals that matched her enameled red toenails. Toni was a true believer in the concept of an endless summer and wore cork wedge sandals from March until the first snowfall. Except, of course, when she wore cowboy boots.

  It was Monday morning at the Cackleberry Club and the breakfast rush was in full force. Eight hungry male bodies were perched on stools and hunched over breakfast plates that sat atop a vintage marble counter appropriated from a now-defunct pharmacy in neighboring Cornucopia. These men, mostly truckers and neighboring farmers, ate silently but with great gusto.

  The rest of the tables, covered in blue-and-white oilcloth, were also filled with customers. Happy, hungry customers who were chowing down on stacks of buttermilk pancakes dripping with maple syrup, blueberry muffins, eggs mornay, Eggs on a Cloud, and Slumbering Volcanoes, this last being a tasty concoction that featured an egg baked inside a scooped-out tomato with artichoke hearts, parmesan cheese, and loads of garlic.

  Hunkered in the steamy kitchen, Petra sizzling thick-cut
strips of bacon and links of sweet Italian sausage on a blackened expanse of grill, the three women were still puzzling over Ozzie’s murder, like a well-oiled team of detectives.

  “What do you think?” Petra asked Suzanne. “Was this about drugs?” Petra talked as she moved about efficiently in her white chef’s jacket, comfy crop pants, and modified chef’s hat that looked like an imploded mushroom.

  “We don’t really know about the drug aspect yet,” Suzanne told Toni. “In fact, we’re not sure if the pharmaceuticals were spilled during the struggle or if Ozzie stumbled in and caught drug thieves in the act. I’ll have to check with Doogie about that.”

  “But would drug thieves go so far as to kill Ozzie?” mused Toni.

  “Of course they would,” said Petra, expertly flipping two sausages onto a waiting plate and sounding a little outraged. “Druggies hold up Seven-Elevens, break into clinics, and even mug old ladies for chump change.”

  “It’s the duct-tape part that weirds me out,” continued Toni.

  ‘Taping Ozzie’s mouth, hands, and feet is totally grisly,” agreed Suzanne. “It’s like something from one of those horror flicks, like Saw or Hostel. Like ... torture.”

  “And that machine” said Toni. “You think Ozzie realized what was happening? That his blood was ... ?”

  Suzanne could only shake her head. “If Ozzie had been fully conscious, it must have been a nightmare for him.”

  “And nobody’s spoken to Missy yet?” asked Petra. She spun around like a ballet dancer, dipped her ladle into a bowl of pancake mix, then dropped three little puddles of batter on the grill where they made a satisfying sizzle.

  “It’s not that I haven’t tried,” Suzanne told her.

  “Call her again,” urged Toni. “We’ve got to make sure she’s okay. Do it now while I cover the cafe out front.” Grabbing a large silver tray, Toni artfully arranged five plated breakfasts onto it, as though she were fitting together pieces of a Chinese puzzle.

  Suzanne snatched the phone off the wall and punched in Missy’s number. Because she’d tried calling so many times, she had it memorized. And since Missy was a good friend and constant customer at the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne was growing more and more concerned that she couldn’t get ahold of her.

  Missy had experienced her own share of bad luck over the past few months. She’d been the office manager for Bobby Waite, Suzanne’s former lawyer, who’d suffered a very untimely death. Bobby’s passing had pretty much rocked everyone’s world. When the law office closed, Missy had accepted a job as general manager of Alchemy, a new fashion boutique that was slated to open this Friday in Kindred’s picturesque downtown.

  “Doggone,” exclaimed Suzanne, frowning. “Number’s still busy. And when I called last night, there was no answer at all.”

  “She’s probably just too upset to talk to anyone,” said Petra. “Just letting her phone ring into oblivion.”

  “I suppose,” said Suzanne. She glanced out the back window and saw her dog, Baxter, lying in the sun. Most days, she brought Baxter to work with her and he enjoyed his day, alternately snoozing and terrorizing gophers that popped their ratty little heads up from the neighboring soy bean field.

  He was getting older, his muzzle going white, but he hadn’t lost his spunk for shagging rodents.

  “Cheddar cheese strata’s up,” said Petra, quickly plating two more breakfasts. She blew a wisp of hair from her face, then muttered, “Now I gotta get my cookies in the oven.”

  “Chocolate chip?” asked Suzanne. Petra was renowned for her chocolate chip cookies. Suzanne was renowned for taking a half dozen home with her and polishing them off while watching Sex and the City reruns.

  “Chocolate chunk walnut cookies,” said Petra, giving a slow wink.

  Suzanne delivered more breakfasts, poured refills of coffee, joked with a few customers, delivered checks, and cleared tables. Toni was behind the counter, slicing a loaf of freshly baked wheat bread and making a ham, Gruyere cheese, and tomato sandwich for an early take-out lunch.

  Suzanne smiled to herself, feeling content. This was the time of day she enjoyed most. When things were humming but not too crazy yet. When the aroma of cinnamon muffins, spicy kielbasa sausage, and fresh-brewed Kona coffee hung redolent in the air. And when she could stand behind the old brass cash register and accept both money and compliments from their customers.

  The Cackleberry Club, in all its cozy, homespun glory, was a bit of a throwback. No frozen, prepackaged foods were heated in microwaves like chain restaurants were wont to do. In fact, the Cackleberry Club prided itself on serving made-from-scratch baked goods, using only cage-free eggs, and sourcing the freshest, local ingredients. Which, interestingly enough, was one of the hottest trends going in the fine dining industry today, whether it was Jean-Georges in New York, Chez Panisse in Berkeley, or the French Laundry in Napa Valley.

  Of course, none of those restaurants boasted a Book Nook and Knitting Nest. Or a fine collection of salt and pepper shakers, battered tin signs, and ceramic chickens crowded into a colorful flock on the cafe’s high shelves. And Suzanne was pretty sure that none of those fancy restaurants had antique egg crates piled outside their front door or a tangle of wild roses crawling up a white trellis.

  Ten minutes later, when Sheriff Roy Doogie swaggered into the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne really wasn’t surprised. She figured he’d show up sooner or later. Doogie had a nose for questions and a craving for caramel rolls.

  “Sheriff,” said Suzanne, as Doogie slid onto the red vinyl stool at the far end of the counter. “How did it go with the crime scene boys?”

  Doogie tilted his head back and peered down his nose at her. “They did their thing and I did mine.”

  “And your thing is ... ?” asked Suzanne.

  “Interviewing suspects.”

  Toni eased her way down the counter to join them. “You have suspects?” she asked. “So soon?” She sounded impressed.

  Petra stuck her face through the pass-through and asked, “You want somethin’ to eat, Sheriff? I got hot Italian sausage and a couple of cakes with your name on them. Oh, and a caramel roll, too.”

  “I ain’t gonna say no,” responded Doogie, as Suzanne laid out flatware and a white paper napkin and Toni poured coffee into an oversized ceramic mug with a chicken on the front.

  “So,” said Toni, sliding the coffee across the counter to Doogie, “who exactly are these suspects of yours?”

  Doogie took a long slurp of coffee, set his cup down, and smiled a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary smile. “Sometimes they’re right under your nose.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Suzanne. “Who are you talking about?”

  Doogie continued to be coy. “Let’s just say a certain girlfriend has caught my attention.”

  Suzanne almost choked. “What?” she screeched, her voice rising a few octaves. “Please tell me you’re not talking about Missy!”

  Doogie waggled his head up and down in a sort of tacit nod.

  “No way!” exclaimed Toni. “Missy and Ozzie were in love!”

  “Not so much recently,” said Doogie. He took another sip of coffee, then peered across the top of his cup at Suzanne. “You and Missy are friends, Suzanne. How much has she told you lately about her relationship with Ozzie?”

  Suzanne thought carefully before she answered. “Not much,” she had to admit. “But I don’t think anything’s changed. Of course, Missy’s been up to her eyeballs with preparations for the launch of Alchemy Boutique.”

  “Huh?” said Doogie.

  “Alchemy,” said Suzanne. “I’m sure you read about it in the Bugle. It’s the new boutique in the Chandler Building, next to Root 66 Hair Salon.” When Doogie still looked puzzled, Suzanne added, “The shop that Carmen Copeland is opening.” Carmen Copeland was a rather flamboyant romance author who lived in neighboring Jessup. Suzanne figured that by launching Alchemy, Car men, in her somewhat snooty, superior manner, was attempting to instill a new level of style
among the women of Kindred.

  Suzanne felt pretty darned comfortable in her faded denim jeans, soft white cotton shirt tied at the waist, and turquoise jewelry, but she wasn’t totally adverse to casually perusing Alchemy’s offerings. But no way was she slipping on platform shoes or any kind of top or tunic that sported oversized shoulder pads. Been there, done that.

  “I’m going to ask you a question and, however you answer it,” said Doogie, “I want to make sure I have your complete confidence.” He made a zipping motion across his mouth. “Okay?”

  Toni nodded while Suzanne gave a reluctant, “Okay.”

  Doogie leaned forward across the counter. “How much do you know about Earl Stensrud?”

  Now Suzanne was really confused. “Earl? You mean Missy’s ex-husband? Why would you bring him up? That guy’s ancient history.”

  Toni bobbed her head. “Last I heard Earl Stensrud was living in Kansas City.”