Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  Suzanne nodded. “It sounds strange, but that’s what I was thinking, too.”

  “Why would someone do that?” asked Nadine.

  “No idea,” said Suzanne.

  Nadine peered at Suzanne with a questioning, half-fearful look. “And you’re involved in this . .. ?” Her voice trailed off. A reasonable question, for sure.

  “Because I found Ozzie,” said Suzanne. “And because my friend Missy Langston has come under suspicion.”

  Nadine’s mouth opened and closed in surprise. “Ah,” she finally said. “She dated Ozzie.”

  “That’s right,” replied Suzanne. “And I’ve been sort of... investigating a couple of different angles.”

  “Missy as a suspect?” said Nadine in a weary tone of voice. “I simply don’t see it.” Then her expression morphed from sadness to approval. “But aren’t you a dear,” she told Suzanne. “Standing up for one of your friends.”

  “So ... about the flowers?” asked Suzanne.

  Nadine shook her head. “There were so many details that... well, I have no idea where they ended up.”

  Once Nadine had finished her business, Suzanne filled out a request form for a title search.

  The young woman at the counter, clad in black T-shirt and leggings, her eyebrow pierced with a skinny silver bolt, gazed at Suzanne’s request and looked blank. “Oh,” she said. “I don’t know if we can do this.”

  “It’s a fairly straight-ahead record search,” Suzanne pointed out.

  The young woman, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, reached up and twirled a tendril of long dark hair.

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure how to do this. See, I’m only temporary. The regular lady is on vacation, so it’s gonna be a couple days.”

  “There’s nothing you could do to expedite things?” asked Suzanne.

  The young woman shook her head. “No, sorry.”

  Chapter fifteen

  By the time Suzanne got back to the Cackleberry Club, every seat in the house was occupied and a few latecomers milled about on the front porch.

  “We’re getting slammed!” cried Petra. Hunched over the grill, she poked at strips of bacon and links of spicy sausage, while eggs, pancakes, and French toast sizzled off to the side. Oversized spatulas were clutched in both her hands.

  “Slammed means making money,” quipped Toni, as she arranged little garnishes of fresh mint and sliced strawberries.

  “The more you chase money,” said Petra, “the harder it is to catch it.”

  “Nicely put,” replied Suzanne. “Now tell me what I can do to help.”

  “Spread out about a dozen big plates so I can dish up these orders,” said Petra. She glanced over at Toni. “You let Suzanne arrange those garnishes, honey, and go back out and take orders.”

  “You sure?” asked Toni.

  “Oh yeah,” said Petra. “This is just a warm-up for our big day on Saturday.”

  For the next ten minutes, Suzanne sprinkled powdered sugar and arranged sliced strawberries on French toast, topped omelets with chopped chives and red onions, and scooped mounds of fresh sour cream onto plates of Jumpin’ Jack Spuds. As each breakfast was painstakingly prepared and plated, Toni ferried it out to waiting customers. Finally, when all the orders had been filled, when all their customers were munching away contentedly, Suzanne grabbed a coffeepot and made the rounds. And collected more than a few appreciative comments on their cooking.

  “I guess we did it, huh?” said Toni. She stood behind the counter, nervously sipping from a mug of coffee, keeping an eye on the front of the house.

  Suzanne slid behind the counter to join her. “You okay?”

  Toni shook her head. “Can’t say’s I am.”

  “Still upset about last night?” asked Suzanne. Of course she was, thought Suzanne. Because she herself had dreamt about Bo’s dark, swollen face.

  Toni took another sip of coffee and pursed her lips. “To tell you the truth, I’m scared to death about Junior.”

  “How so?” asked Suzanne.

  “Maybe I’m just picking up your vibes,” said Toni, “but I’ve got the worst feeling he might be involved in this mess.” She seemed afraid to meet Suzanne’s eyes. “You know ... the drugs. Maybe even the murders. Not that he’d actually kill somebody, but he could be, you know ... involved peripherally.”

  “And you’re basing your fears and suspicions on . . . what?” asked Suzanne.

  Toni made a face. “A bunch of things. First, Junior’s a dope. Anybody with half a brain can turn his head with a little fast talk. Especially if you promise him money.”

  “Okay,” said Suzanne. No contest there.

  “And I know Junior’s been hanging around Hoobly’s roadhouse a lot. Factor in all those deliveries he’s been making...”

  Suzanne decided not to pull any punches. She drew a deep breath and said, “Maybe Junior hasn’t been making deliveries at all. Maybe he’s just seeing another woman. Junior does have a wandering eye. I mean, any piece of fluff in low-slung jeans is bound to catch his eye.”

  “You got that right,” snorted Toni. She took another sip of coffee, then turned worried eyes on Suzanne. “But this time Junior’s up to something more. I mean, he really has been earning extra money.”

  Suzanne hated to ask, but did. “A lot of money?”

  Toni shook her head in the affirmative. “More than he usually does.”

  “Oh,” said Suzanne.

  “What if Junior’s involved with drugs?” asked Toni.

  “You mean like drugs missing from the funeral home?”

  “That,” said Toni, “or any drugs.”

  Grimacing, Suzanne said, “Then I’d say he’s in big trouble.”

  “Which means I’ve gotta pull his sorry butt out of the fire,” said Toni. “Before he ends up like Bo Becker, swinging from some lonely, bare tree, with his boot heels dangling five inches above the ground.”

  “Dear Lord!” exclaimed Suzanne. Toni’s imagery was just too much.

  “I mean it, Suzanne!”

  “You want to save Junior from himself?” asked Suzanne. “I’m not sure you can do that. I’m not sure anybody can do that.”

  “But I gotta try,” said Toni. “He told me he’s meeting somebody out at Hoobly’s tonight. So here’s the thing. Will you go out there with me? To sort of spy on him?”

  “Um,” said Suzanne. She really didn’t want to. Toni threw her a pleading look. “There’s no book club tonight, so we’re both free ...” How could Suzanne say no?

  Because the Cackleberry Club opened two hours late today, lunch was slightly abbreviated. Chicken noodle soup, crab salad, ham au gratin, upside-down French toast for the breakfast-at-lunch-fans, and devil’s food cake for dessert.

  Just as Suzanne finished writing their luncheon offerings on the blackboard, their busboy Joey Ewald came charging in. He was a skateboarding freak who dressed the part and was perpetually being reprimanded for hitching rides on the back of cars. In fact, Suzanne had once towed Joey a couple of miles without even knowing he was hanging on behind her like a remora. Scared her to death.

  “Hey, momma,” was Joey’s offbeat greeting today.

  “I’m not your momma,” said Suzanne. “And you’re ten minutes late for work.”

  “Whatever,” said Joey. He gave her a wink and a winsome smile and shrugged.

  Kids, she thought, what can you do?

  “You guys got busy,” said Joey, grabbing a gray plastic tub, ready to go to work clearing tables.

  “And we’re gonna be a whole lot busier for lunch,” Suzanne told him. “So kindly march yourself in back, wash your hands .. . with antibacterial soap, please ... and slip on an apron.”

  “Do I get to wear a scarf, too?” asked Joey.

  Ever since Suzanne had let him pinch-hit as a waitperson, Joey wanted to wear a head scarf fashioned as a do-rag. “There’s a clean bandana of Baxter’s you can use,” Suzanne told him. “But be sure to leave it when you’re finished. It’s
his favorite.”

  “Cool,” said Joey. He ducked in back, then emerged a few minutes later with his apron and a bandana worn pirate-style. “See?” he said, arms extended, striking an exaggerated pose. “All duded up.”

  “Cool,” echoed Suzanne.

  “Is your back bothering you again?” asked Toni. Petra seemed like she was more hunched over her griddle than usual.

  Petra placed her hand in the small of her back and rubbed. “Gotta call the chiropractor.”

  “Is your guy a back cracker?” asked Toni.

  “Yes and no,” replied Petra. “He uses modified chiropractic, a touch of osteopathy, creative visualization, and good old-fashioned prayer.”

  “Nothing wrong with prayer,” said Toni.

  “But not quite your AMA-sanctioned treatment,” said Suzanne.

  “Except it works!” exclaimed Petra.

  “I need to run something by you guys,” said Suzanne as she centered blue ceramic bowls on white plates.

  “Uh-oh,” said Petra. “Something to do with the murders?”

  “No,” said Suzanne, “nothing that colorful. It’s about me being a model this Friday.”

  “What!” squealed Petra. This little bit of news made her straighten right up.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Toni giggled. “Our Suzanne has been asked to strut her stuff, such as it is, on the catwalk.”

  “More like a quick loop around a garment rack,” said Suzanne, a little embarrassed. “It’s the grand opening of Alchemy. Missy asked me last night. I think they want a middle-aged model so everyone else looks fresh and young.”

  “They do start ‘em at an early age,” allowed Toni. “Kate Moss was just fifteen when she started working the runways in Paris.”

  “Where’d you read that?” asked Petra.

  “The Inquisitor” said Toni. “All the hot, hip people are profiled in there.”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Petra. Then she peered at Suzanne. “Are you gonna do it? ‘Cause I think you should.”

  “That’s what I said, too,” said Toni. “Suzanne’s a natural.”

  “Sure,” agreed Petra. “She’s got a nice long stride.”

  “Especially when she’s wearing her cowboy boots,” said Toni. “She’s like, ‘Hey, I’m a lady gunslinger.’“

  But Suzanne was still anxious. “I’m just afraid Carmen’s only gonna stock the tiny sizes. Two, four, six.”

  “I’m a fourteen,” volunteered Petra. “And that’s on a good day.”

  “What constitutes a good day?” asked Toni.

  Petra made a sour face. “Right after a bout of stomach flu when I’m totally dehydrated.”

  “Oh man,” marveled Toni, “and I have trouble keeping weight on.”

  ‘That’s so unfair,” said Petra. “Since you eat like a truck driver.”

  “Nerves,” explained Toni. “I’m extremely high-strung.” She giggled. “Or maybe I’m just strung out.”

  “I don’t think I should do it,” said Suzanne. “Model, I mean.”

  “I think you’d be great,” urged Petra. “With the right clothes and makeup you’ll look just like a supermodel.”

  “Or she can strap on a pair of wings and look like those babes in the Victoria’s Secret show,” chortled Toni.

  “I know what Victoria’s Secret is,” Petra told them in hushed tones.

  “What?” asked Suzanne and Toni in unison.

  Petra grinned. “Nobody over forty can fit in her lingerie!”

  True to Suzanne’s prediction, lunch was crazy busy. She and Toni took orders, delivered them to Petra, and tried their best to cajole customers into settling for apple pie when they ran out of cake.

  Just when things were at their busiest, Mayor Mobley walked in, accompanied by a dark-complected man wearing a well-tailored pinstripe suit. But the mayor wasn’t there to eat; rather he ambled from table to table, glad-handing customers and passing out red, white, and blue campaign buttons with bouncing type that proclaimed “Reelect Mobley” above a photo of his chubby, smirking face.

  “We’re a little busy here, Mayor,” Toni told him, balancing a tray on one hip and trying to edge by him.

  Mobley, dressed in khaki pants and a red polo shirt, just grinned his imperious politician’s grin and slapped one of his oversized campaign buttons into Toni’s free hand.

  “Well, look at this,” Toni announced loudly, so everyone could hear. “A fancy-schmancy button with a picture on it. Too bad it’s not your butt.” She made a big show of turning the button around.

  “Oh wait, I had it upside down. It is your butt!”

  The crowd roared as Mobley glared at her.

  “You got a smart mouth for such a little gal,” he told her.

  Toni glowered back, assuming the attack pose of a rabid Doberman pinscher. Which was when Suzanne stepped in.

  “Can I get you a table, Mayor?” Suzanne was polite but decidedly firm. When you came to the Cackleberry Club, you were here to eat, buy books, or learn how to knit. No way was this turning into a political rally.

  “Just passing through,” said Mobley. “Doing a little last-minute election work.” He gave a self-important, throat-clearing harrumph, then added, “Not that I need to. Unlike some law officers I know.”

  Suzanne knew Mayor Mobley was making a heavy-handed dig at Doogie not being reelected.

  “Got somebody you should meet,” said the mayor, suddenly beaming at her. “This here’s Ray Lynch. Ray represents the acquisitions department of the Rom Funeral Home Consortium.”

  Ray extended his hand to Suzanne.

  “Suzanne is one of Kindred’s new breed of female entrepreneurs,” said the mayor, managing to sound slightly condescending.

  “How do?” said Suzanne as she slowly shook Ray Lynch’s hand. She stared at him as he fixed her with unblinking, steel gray eyes. A tough guy, she decided. With a bottom-line, bean-counter mentality.

  Mobley slapped Ray Lynch on the back and said, “Ray is a real blue-chip business guy.”

  “And you think blue chip means buying up local businesses and replacing them with faceless, out-of-town corporate owners?” asked Suzanne.

  Mobley’s face turned red as a cooked lobster, his eyes became piggy little slits. “You sound like a doggone socialist, Suzanne. Next thing you know you’ll be parading around town spouting the Communist Manifesto.”

  “It’s a free country, Mayor,” said Suzanne. “Get used to it.”

  As Suzanne delivered pumpkin bars and slices of apple crumb pie, she couldn’t help but wonder about Ray Lynch. If Ozzie had turned down an offer from the consortium, could Ray Lynch have taken matters into his own hands? What if he wasn’t just the acquisitions guy, but also the company muscle? Suzanne knew it was a stretch, a huge supposition on her part, but if Ray Lynch had killed Ozzie, could he have gone after Bo Becker, too?

  Suzanne stepped behind the counter, rang up two checks, hit the keys on the old brass cash register, and returned a few dollars in change to a couple of customers.

  Maybe, she thought, Ray Lynch had also gone after Bo Becker because he thought Bo viewed him as a suspect. As Ozzie’s killer. Then Lynch would have just been tying up loose ends.

  Suzanne stared across the cafe, her eyes landing on the high shelf that held their collection of ceramic chickens. A little white hen squatted next to a reddish brown rooster. A flock of yellow chicks was scattered nearby. She shook her head. No answers there.

  So where am I going to find the answers?

  Even though Missy was now a long shot as a suspect, Suzanne had to admit she was clearly fascinated with this case. Or cases, really. And Doogie didn’t seem to be making much forward progress, even as the mayor seemed to relish Doogie’s tenuous situation.

  Could Mayor Mobley be in bed with the Roth Funeral Home Consortium?

  It was possible, she supposed. Anything was possible.

  Suzanne wove her way through the tables, letting random ideas rumble through her brain. Pushing open the
door to the kitchen, she turned in the direction of their big industrial stove and yelled, “Petra, how much do you know about Mayor Mobley?”

  But Petra wasn’t in her usual position. Suzanne’s gaze switched to the back door. Petra was just closing it, turning toward her with a smile, dusting her hands together, and asking, “What?”