Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  “How did you know I was there?” Suzanne asked.

  “It’s my job to know things,” said Gene.

  “I don’t think I can add anything, Gene.”

  “Then how about you share your suspicions?” he asked.

  “No way,” said Suzanne.

  “C’mon,” said Gene. “This is hot stuff. So far we’ve got a scorned girlfriend, a jealous ex-husband, and a young kid with a serious history of violence.”

  “Sounds like a made-for-TV movie,” remarked Suzanne.

  Gene’s voice was upbeat. “Doesn’t it? That’s why I wanted you to add your take on the matter. Help stir the pot, so to speak.”

  “That’s the last thing I want to do, Gene.”

  “My editor’s gonna want something” wheedled Gene.

  “Put her on the phone, will you?” asked Suzanne. Laura Benchley was the managing editor of the Bugle and a terrifically smart businesswoman.

  Laura came on the phone. “Hey, Suzanne. Things still humming along at the Cackleberry Club?”

  “Can’t complain,” said Suzanne.

  “Any chance I could get that recipe for oatmeal scones you guys served last week?” asked Laura. “They were fantastic.”

  “I’ll e-mail it to you,” said Suzanne.

  “Okay if I publish it?” asked Laura.

  “Sure,” said Suzanne. “Why not?”

  “How about you write another tea column for us? Could you get one done in about two weeks?”

  “Can do,” said Suzanne.

  “We’re gonna do a nice write-up in Thursday’s paper on your Take the Cake Show,” Laura told her. “Get even more buzz going.”

  “Appreciate that,” said Suzanne.

  “Okay then,” said Laura. “I’ll put Gene back on.”

  “Oh, but you’re so much nicer than Gene,” Suzanne said with a laugh.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Laura. “He thinks he’s Dan Rather.” She laughed wickedly.

  “Or Dan Rather-not,” added Suzanne.

  Chapter seven

  Midafternoon found Toni and Suzanne hunched over the butcher-block table in the kitchen, munching leftover tea sandwiches and sipping fresh-squeezed lemonade. Afternoon tea service was winding down in the cafe, with just a few ladies lingering over a final cup.

  “What did the nasty old dragon lady want?” asked Toni.

  Suzanne giggled. She couldn’t help herself. “You’re referring to our dear Carmen Copeland?”

  “Play nice, children,” warned Petra, as she stacked leftover scones into a large wicker basket.

  “Carmen brought in a poster to advertise her book signing on Wednesday,” said Suzanne.

  “Big whoop,” said Toni. “I thought maybe she sashayed in to try to shanghai more workers for her snooty boutique.”

  “She already did that to Missy,” Petra interjected. Then she gazed worriedly at Suzanne. “You think Missy will be okay?”

  “Okay about Ozzie’s death or okay working for Carmen?” asked Suzanne.

  “Both, I suppose,” said Petra.

  “Missy will be fine,” Suzanne assured her. “She’s a survivor.”

  “Like us,” said Toni. “Or more to the point, like you and Petra.”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” said Petra. She put her hands on her ample hips and smiled at them. “Now that things have settled down to a dull roar, I’m going to take a batch of scones, a jar of fig jam, and a big thermos of lemonade over to the fellows who are working on the Journey’s End Church.” Last month, the church, which was just down the frontage road from the Cackleberry Club, had been tragically torched by an arsonist. Now the site had been cleared, a foundation poured, and the church was slowly being rebuilt.

  “Need any help?” asked Toni. They all felt terrible about what had happened to the church.

  “I’m fine,” said Toni, gathering everything up. “But my heart just goes out to Reverend Yoder. Do you know, he’s been over there every day, wandering around nervously, trying to pitch in?”

  “Traded in his reverend’s collar for a chambray work shirt,” said Suzanne.

  “Reverend Yoder’s just hoping the job will get done faster, I suppose,” said Toni. “Wouldn’t it be great if they could finish the church in time for Christmas? I just hate to think of those poor folks not being able to sing Christmas hymns in their own church.”

  “I know,” said Petra. “But the unfortunate thing is, Reverend Yoder doesn’t know the difference between a Phillips-head screwdriver and a flat-head screwdriver.”

  Toni popped a last bit of sandwich into her mouth and declared, “Neither do I.”

  “I suppose it’s the thought that counts,” continued Petra. “I love that he cares so passionately about getting his church rebuilt and bringing his congregation back together.” On Suzanne’s invitation, the congregation had met a few times at the Cackleberry Club. Now they were using St. Sebastian’s Church at off hours. A nice ecumenical arrangement between two different religions.

  Petra hadn’t been gone more than two minutes when there was a loud, erratic banging on the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the cafe.

  Uh-oh, thought Suzanne. An unhappy customer? She walked over, gave a tentative push on the door, and was startled to find a somber-looking Junior Garrett staring back at her. “Junior!” she exclaimed.

  “Aw crap,” muttered Toni. Only last week her estranged husband had displayed a wandering eye for curvy-bordering-on-chubby women who favored tight angora sweaters. In other words, not Toni.

  “Toni back here?” Junior asked, shrugging back his dangling forelock, not even bothering with a polite hi-how-are-you. “Sure she is,” he scowled, answering his own question. “She’s always hangin’ out at your little sorority house. You girls probably have your own secret handshake and decoder rings.”

  Toni lunged for Junior. “Don’t be an ass, Junior,” she said, swatting at his head.

  “Hey, lay off!” Junior cried, ducking as her fingernails grazed him, then hastily retreating a few steps.

  “What do you want?” asked Toni, lunging again and, this time, getting a firm grasp on the back of his shirt. She twisted sharply, gathering fabric while she shoved Junior back out into the cafe and steered him to a seat at the counter. “And keep your voice down,” she hissed at him. “We still have customers.”

  “Jeez,” said Junior, looking like a puppy who’d just been walloped with a rolled-up newspaper for making doo-doo on the floor. “I just dropped by to say hi.”

  “Hi,” said Toni through gritted teeth.

  “Now good-bye,” Suzanne said, airily.

  “No need to give me the bum’s rush,” complained Junior. “I just wanna get something to eat.” He turned innocent eyes on both of them. “I been working since five this morning.”

  “A quick bite and then you’ll leave?” asked Suzanne. She wasn’t fond of Junior Garrett, and she knew he wasn’t good for Toni. Treated her like a doormat. Cheated on her, too. Only problem was ... Toni wavered between wanting a divorce and having second thoughts about getting back together with Junior. Lot of that going around these days.

  “I suppose we could spare a sandwich or two,” Toni told him, ripping Junior’s trucker’s cap from his head and plopping it on the counter in front of him, like she was lining up Exhibit A for the jury.

  “You’ll settle for leftovers?” asked Suzanne, relenting some.

  “Sure,” said Junior. “Whatever.”

  “You’ll get whatever,” breathed Toni.

  But when they brought Junior a plate of tea sandwiches and a scone, he peeled the top slice off his sandwich and stared suspiciously at the chicken salad. “What’s this?” he demanded. “Don’t you girls got anything fresher?”

  “When you’re getting something for free,” said Toni, “you take what’s set in front of you and don’t make a fuss.”

  “Hey,” protested Junior, “I can pay for this. I just got myself a brand-new job.”
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br />   “What do you mean, a new job?” asked Toni. “I thought you were still working at Shelby’s Body Shop. Please don’t tell me you got fired. Again.”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” said Junior, suddenly looking a little smug. “I should’ve been more specific. What I meant to say was I’ve taken on another job. You girls think I want to fix fenders and do paint touch-ups all my life? No way. Not this paisano.”

  “You have a second job?” asked Suzanne. That Junior was able to hold down one job was remarkable. That he’d taken on a second job was an alert-the-media event.

  “I’m double-dipping from the trough of commerce!” Junior chortled, as he greedily stuffed a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich into his mouth. He seemed delighted with his mini bombshell.

  “Better not let Shelby’s hear you talk like that or they’ll bounce you on your skinny butt and send you packing,” warned Toni. “You haven’t even been there six months. Aren’t you still on probation?”

  “Probation’s a way of life with Junior,” muttered Petra, who had returned and was now banging pots and pans in the kitchen.

  “What is this other job, anyway?” Suzanne asked him.

  Junior hunched his shoulders and looked slightly evasive. “I got a kind of delivery service going.”

  “And what is it you deliver?” asked Suzanne, praying one of their suppliers hadn’t hired Junior to schlep eggs and milk all over the county.

  “Yeah,” said Toni. “And where exactly are you delivering it to?” She’d noticed Suzanne’s suspicion toward Junior. Now she was feeling that way, too.

  Junior puffed out his chest, trying to look important. “Are you kidding? They got me running all over the doggone place. Supposed to drive up to Minneapolis tonight and then to Des Moines next Wednesday.”

  “And just what is it you’re delivering?” Suzanne asked again.

  “Auto parts,” snapped Junior. The fact that he said it a little too quickly and the answer sounded a little too rehearsed made Suzanne doubly suspicious.

  “That’s interesting,” said Suzanne. “Because I thought most parts supply places had their own fleet of delivery trucks and drivers.”

  “Yeah,” said Toni. “You see those panel trucks with the little orange caps on top driving around all the time.”

  Junior’s scowl was almost menacing. “Why can’t you girls ever be happy for me? Why do you have to put me down all the time? Bash me like all I am is some stupid piñata.”

  “Maybe because you always seem to be just this side of the law?” Suzanne shot back. “Maybe because you were miserably remiss in giving your wife the love and devotion she deserved? And now you’re dragging your clodhoppers when it comes to giving Toni a well-earned, well-deserved divorce.”

  “What if she don’t want one?” asked Junior.

  “Oh, she wants one,” chimed in Petra.

  “Don’t you just wonder what Junior’s up to?” Suzanne asked Toni as they set the tables for tomorrow’s breakfast. “Huh?” asked Toni as she piled sugar cubes into antique china sugar bowls they’d picked up at area tag sales. “What I’m saying,” said Suzanne, “is I hope Junior’s not involved in anything illegal.”

  Toni looked thoughtful. “Like what?”

  “Oh,” said Suzanne. “Maybe like ... drugs?”

  Toni looked startled. “He wouldn’t do that. Junior’s not that idiotic.”

  Suzanne gazed at Toni and lifted an eyebrow.

  “Okay,” hedged Toni, “Junior may be one taco short of a combo plate, but I doubt he’s involved in drugs!”

  “I don’t know,” said Suzanne, still not convinced. “You hear all these rumors about meth labs in rural areas. Just like in big cities, a lot of small towns have terrible problems with stuff like crystal meth and methamphetamines.”

  “Holy buckets,” said Toni. “Sheriff Burney over in Deer County busted a meth lab just last month.”

  Suzanne finished folding a linen napkin into a tricky bishop’s hat, then suddenly frowned and looked up, a question clouding her face.

  “What?” asked Toni.

  “What if Ozzie’s murder was related to drugs?” said Suzanne. “What if he was killed by some amateur meth lab chemists who were desperate for chemicals?”

  “That’s quite a brainstorm,” allowed Toni. “You oughta give Sheriff Doogie a jingle and share your theory with him.”

  “Last time I shared anything with Doogie it was a basket of onion rings,” said Suzanne. “And that’s just ‘cause he sat down and started helping himself.”

  Satisfied they were set up for tomorrow, Suzanne and Petra wandered into the Knitting Nest. This was clearly Petra’s domain—she being a confirmed knitter and quilter. Now she was fussing about happily, arranging skeins of mohair yarn, alpaca, and even a few skeins of cashmere. She’d stocked up like mad and was obviously ecstatic about the big Knit-In this Thursday. At last count, she had almost thirty women coming.

  “So how does this Knit-In work?” asked Toni. “Is everyone going to start a new project or will they bring stuff they’ve been working on?”

  “A little of both,” said Petra, dumping an assortment of knitting needles into a large, flat basket. ‘The important thing is, all our knitters have gotten pledges from friends and families. And all the finished garments will be put on sale and the money given to charity.”

  “You are such a sweetheart,” said Suzanne. She fingered a cowl-collared shawl that was hanging on the wall. It was knitted with Noro yarn from Japan and done in subtle colors of rust, orange, blue, and yellow. “Did you knit this?”

  Petra nodded.

  “And it’s for sale?” asked Suzanne.

  “Oh sure,” said Petra.

  “Then put a red dot on it for me, will you?” said Suzanne. “Like those fancy art galleries do, to mark a piece sold.”

  “La-di-da,” sang Toni. “Suzanne’s been to an art gallery.”

  “It was more of a framing store,” said Suzanne. “Over in Cornucopia.”

  Plopping down in one of their squishy chairs, Toni wiggled her butt and unfurled her latest issue of the National Inquisitor. Petra didn’t approve of Toni’s subscription to the Hollywood gossip rag, but it was one of Toni’s guilty little pleasures. Like Suzanne’s passion for chocolate. And fine Bordeaux wine. And Sarabeth’s peach preserves from Dean & DeLuca. And a few other things she couldn’t go into detail on.

  “Lookie this,” said Toni, holding up a page. “Here’s a photo of Jessica Simpson wearing a checked shirt a lot like mine.” She squinted at the grainy color photo. “Except she’s got more in the cha-cha department.”

  “Give her another fifteen years,” said Petra, “then she’ll be well acquainted with the indisputable laws of gravity.”

  Toni grabbed a copy of the Kindred Bugle, turned to the back page, and said, “Time to check out the personals column.”

  “Pass,” replied Suzanne.

  “No, really,” said Toni. “There are some good guys here. Listen to this one. Outdoorsy guy ...”

  “That means he shoots baby animals and chews tobacco,” said Suzanne.

  Toni snorted, but continued,”... who’s low-key but fun-loving and seeks a possible long-term relationship.”

  “Low-key probably means he’s a slug,” pointed out Petra.

  “And fun-loving is code for likes to get drunk,” said Suzanne.

  “What about the part where he’s seeking a long-term relationship?” asked Toni.

  “Just means he wants somebody to cook for him, do laundry, and sandblast the scum off his bathroom walls,” laughed Suzanne.

  “You guys are so cynical,” said Toni. “I think he sounds like a heck of a prospect.”

  “You mean better than Junior,” said Petra.

  “Anybody’s better than Junior,” agreed Toni.

  Suzanne wandered over to Petra’s newly done display of knitting needles. “Tell me about these bamboo needles.”

  Petra’s face took on an almost beatific look.
“Oh, they’re simply wonderful” she cooed. “Bamboo knitting needles are exceedingly smooth and have a very soothing feel. The amazing thing is, the yarn won’t slip off, but it will slide exactly the way you want it to. And the bamboo makes a soft, clicking sound. It’s almost spiritual. Zenlike,” she added.

  “We could all use a little Zen in our lives.” Suzanne sighed.

  “Thinking about Saturday,” said Toni, “I’m wishing I knew a little bit about Zen. Or Yoga. To help me chill out.”

  “Gonna be crazy,” agreed Suzanne.