Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  “I know you do, honey,” said Suzanne. “And I don’t think you’re far from wrong.” She paused. “Anything else come to mind about this guy you saw?”

  Petra shook her head. “Nope.” She slid her hand into an oven mitt, pulled open the oven door, grabbed a pan of oatmeal muffins.

  “Okay,” said Suzanne. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Is that homeless guy a suspect in the murders?” Petra asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “Maybe.”

  “Too bad,” said Petra. “He seemed awfully despondent and . . . vulnerable.” She tumbled the steaming muffins onto a bright orange Fiesta platter, righted them, then arranged them in a tight cluster.

  “He could still be a killer,” said Suzanne.

  “I suppose,” said Petra. She balanced the plate in one hand, then handed it to Suzanne. “You want to put these in the case out front?”

  “Sure,” said Suzanne. She grabbed the plate, turned, and bumped against the swinging door with her right hip.

  “Oh,” Petra called after her, “you know what? There is another thing.”

  Suzanne stopped short. “What’s that?”

  Petra touched a tentative hand to her blouse, as if that small act helped her to remember. “I think there was a name stenciled on his jacket.”

  “You remember what it was?”

  “Maybe something like ... Dilley or Dillon?”

  The Knit-In was still going strong. Leticia Sprague, who lived outside Jessup and raised her own sheep and alpacas, showed up with a basket full of her wonderful, lustrous yarns. A throwback to a simpler, more hands-on era, Leticia sheared her animals herself, spun her own yarn, then hand-dyed the fibers. When she announced that some of her precious yarns were for sale, a joyful hubbub ensued and they were gone in about half a minute.

  With lunch almost finished, Petra finally stepped out of the kitchen to honcho the Knit-In, while Toni schmoozed, served desserts, and rang up customers at the checkout.

  Feeling guilty, Suzanne ducked out the back door, heading for her fitting at Alchemy. As she dashed for her car, big fat raindrops splattered down, kicking up the dust like a spray of bullets. She prayed the bad weather would blow over for the weekend.

  Chapter twenty one

  Just as Suzanne scrambled from her car, obsessing about how she was going to squeeze her bod into a tiny camisole or supertight miniskirt, Mayor Mobley waylaid her. He planted his stocky body on the pitted sidewalk outside Alchemy and grinned crookedly like some weird Easter Island statue.

  “I hope I can count on your vote this election, Suzanne,” he said in a flinty voice.

  Suzanne fixed him with a cool smile. “Voting’s a private matter, Mayor.” And none of your frickin’ business.

  “I understand that,” said Mobley, “but I also believe in asking people for their support.”

  “I can see that,” said Suzanne.

  “No harm in campaigning,” said Mobley. Now his voice was raised in a false hearty bray.

  “Mmm,” responded Suzanne.

  Mobley curled a lip and nattered on. “Doogie’s up for reelection, too, you know. But I’m fairly certain that if he drops the ball on these two murder investigations, it’ll be the end of him.”

  “I have faith in Sheriff Doogie,” said Suzanne.

  “You and about two other people in Kindred,” came Mobley’s hard laugh.

  ‘The guy that’s running against you . . .” said Suzanne. “Your opponent?”

  Mobley nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah. You mean Charlie Peebler?”

  “I think I’m going to vote for him.”

  “Suzanne!” Missy threw her arms into the air and came running to greet her. Suzanne returned Missy’s ebullient hug, even as she gazed about the brand-spanking-new boutique. And let out a low whistle of approval.

  Alchemy was, to put it mildly, utterly breathtaking.

  The walls were a rich plum hue, plush silver gray carpeting spread out underfoot like velvet fog, and an enormous crystal chandelier dangled overhead, casting a jewel like glow on everything.

  And the clothes and handbags and jewelry! Oh my!

  There were denim jackets trimmed with velvet and jeweled buttons.

  J Brand jeans and Love Quotes scarves. Black-lacquered mannequins modeled long, filmy skirts paired with black leather motorcycle jackets as well as black cocktail dresses—some with only one shoulder. And there were cheetah-print T-shirts, colorful Lucite bangles, leather slacks, silk blouses, multicolored graphic hoodies, strands of pearls, giant statement rings, reptile handbags, and cashmere scarves.

  Everything was arranged impeccably on circular racks and pedestals, or tucked enticingly in glass towers and shiny white cubes that hung on a side wall.

  “You like?” asked Missy. She looked exhausted, but pleased.

  “This place is like fantasyland for fashionistas,” exclaimed Suzanne, who was already eyeing a burnished green leather belt. She also decided this beautifully edited boutique was a far cry from Hawley’s Dry Goods down the street, where you could buy serviceable checkered blouses and generic blue jeans. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” she added with a chuckle.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” said Missy, pulling her toward the back of the shop. “We’ve already picked out a couple of outfits for you to model. So, obviously, I’m dying to see how they work.”

  Suzanne let herself be pulled along by Missy, past two stylishly dressed women who were artfully arranging more clothing and accessories. “Your assistants?” she asked.

  “I wish,” said Missy, rolling her eyes. “No, they work for a couple of the vendors Carmen buys from. Here to make sure everything’s styled properly. That I don’t screw it up,” she added in a low whisper.

  “If you’re responsible for even half the displays,” Suzanne told her, “then you’re amazingly talented.”

  “I’ve done my share all right,” said Missy, shepherding Suzanne into an all-white dressing room ablaze with lights. “I just wish Carmen would acknowledge some of my accomplishments.”

  “Don’t wait for Carmen’s approval,” warned Suzanne, “because it will probably never come. But if. . . when . . . you draw an appreciative crowd tomorrow afternoon, you’ll know in your heart that all your hard work was worth it.”

  “Thank you,” said Missy. “I needed to hear that. Now...” She smiled expectantly. “Let me show you the outfits.” She grabbed at a rack and held up clothing in both hands. “We pulled two outfits. A skirt with matching tunic... and jeans paired with a leather bomber jacket.”

  “Wow,” said Suzanne, gazing at the clothing. It was a lot more sophisticated than her normal slacks and T-shirts. “Carmen put these together?”

  Missy nodded. “Great stuff, huh?”

  Suzanne fingered the filmy skirt. “It’s awfully see-through.”

  “That’s the look,” said Missy.

  ‘The look,” repeated Suzanne. “Yes, I do believe I’d get looks if I wore this.”

  “Okay,” said Missy, “then how about the jeans and leather jacket?”

  “Awfully small sizes,” said Suzanne.

  “Carmen assured me the sizes are correct,” Missy told her. “It’s called the shrunken look.”

  “Last time I wore the shrunken look, it stemmed from a mistake,” said Suzanne. “I threw my crop pants into the dryer with a load of towels and twenty minutes later they came out as Bermudas.”

  ‘This is a slightly different concept,” said Missy.

  “I realize that,” said Suzanne. “Still...” But when Missy suddenly looked defeated, she said, “Tell you what, why don’t I slip into these things and see how they work?”

  ‘Thank you!” breathed Missy.

  Alone in the dressing room, Suzanne slipped out of her khaki slacks and pulled on the jeans. Or at least tried to pull them on. Turns out, they weren’t just shrunken, they were skintight. How can eating a one-pound box of chocolate truffles add up to an extra five pound
s around my hips? she wondered. It isn’t mathematically possible. Or maybe it all has to do with quantum physics or some sort of black hole theory. I mean, the calories have to go somewhere!

  “How are we doing in there?” called Missy.

  “We’re having a little trouble with our thighs,” Suzanne called back. “And our hips.”

  “Keep tugging,” said Missy. “I told you they were tight.”

  Suzanne wiggled and squirmed and wormed the jeans up. Then she slipped into the leather jacket. It was black leather, smooth and buttery soft. Lambskin, with a shiny brass diagonal zipper.

  “Oh wow!” said Missy, when Suzanne stepped out of the dressing room.

  “Sexy!” called one of the stylists.

  “I don’t know ...” hedged Suzanne.

  “I do,” said Missy. “It’s perfect.” She spun Suzanne around and aimed her at the three-way mirror.

  “A little tough-looking, don’t you think?” asked Suzanne. She decided she looked like a motorcycle thug from The Wild Bunch. Or maybe ... the Fonz?

  “The outfit’s edgy,” said Missy, touching both shoulders. “Just like you.”

  “In my dreams,” said Suzanne.

  “Oh, did I tell you?” cooed Missy. “Brett and Greg from Root 66 will be here tomorrow doing hair and makeup.”

  “Oh dear.” One of Suzanne’s hands flew up to her hair. She was slightly overdue for a cut and touch-up on her roots.

  “Not to worry,” chuckled Missy. “They’re not going to get radical or anything. No purple extensions or wacked-out Amy Winehouse streaky eye makeup.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Suzanne, wondering which one Amy Winehouse was. The singer with the smeared lipstick and ripped fishnets? Or was that Courtney Love?

  “But all the models will definitely be made up,” said Missy. “Carmen was very specific about that.” She reached forward and pulled up the collar of Suzanne’s jacket. ‘There. Even better.”

  “Missy,” said Suzanne.

  Missy smiled. “Hmm?”

  “Has Sheriff Doogie been asking you about Earl?”

  Missy took a step backward. “What are you talking about?”

  Suzanne tried to phrase her next words delicately. “I get the feeling Doogie still considers Earl a suspect.”

  Missy shook her head. “From the way Doogie treats me, I think I’m still his number one suspect.” Her eyes clouded over slightly. “You don’t think I had anything to do with Ozzie’s death, do you, Suzanne?”

  Suzanne shook her head. “No, I don’t.” At least I hope not.

  “And you don’t think Earl’s a killer, do you?”

  Suzanne managed another small shake. I don’t know what to think.

  Missy surprised her with a quick hug. “You’re a dear to model this outfit,” she told Suzanne. “And an absolute angel for looking into things. I know you’ve been trying to deflect Doogie’s scrutiny off me and for that I’m eternally grateful.”

  “Not a problem,” said Suzanne. Although it really kind of was.

  When Suzanne emerged from the dressing room, happily back in civilian clothes, she saw that a white satin curtain had been draped across the entire back of the store. Groups of white folding chairs were being arranged out front.

  “Wow,” said Suzanne. “There’s going to be a runway?”

  “Of sorts,” said Missy. “We’ll lay down white vinyl runners and weave them through the shop. That way everyone will be able to get a good look at the clothing.”

  “Gulp,” said Suzanne. Then she and Missy both turned as a little bell tinkled and the front door swung open.

  It was Earl Stensrud. “Hiya, sweetheart,” he called to Missy, a big smile on his face.

  “You paste up that program I’m supposed to take to Copy Shop?”

  “I’ll grab it,” said Missy, hustling toward the back counter.

  Earl finally noticed Suzanne. “Hey there,” he said to her. “You thought any more about that extra insurance?”

  “Not really,” said Suzanne. “I’m not anticipating any earthquakes, floods, or fires of biblical proportion.”

  “Okay,” said Earl. “Suit yourself.” He bounced from foot to foot, waiting for Missy, looking pleased.

  “Earl,” said Suzanne, “you look like the cat who swallowed the canary.”

  “That sounds awfully accusatory, Suzanne,” said Earl. His smile had suddenly vanished.

  “Chipper, then,” Suzanne amended. “I’d say you’re looking exceedingly chipper.”

  “Now that Missy’s available again,” said Earl, brushing past Suzanne and homing in on Missy, “I feel like a million bucks.”

  Back at the Cackleberry Club, the Knit-In was still chugging along. A few finished pieces were already up for sale and the cafe” had drawn a large crowd of women for afternoon tea.

  Petra had gone back into the kitchen to whip up crab salad and ham and Swiss cheese tea sandwiches and bake a few pans of blueberry scones. Toni had just finished brewing pots of lemon verbena and orchid tea, so those lovely aromas wafted languidly across the café turning the Cackleberry Club into an aromatherapy bazaar.

  “I have to have that ruffled shawl,” Suzanne said, as Petra positioned the second tier on a newly baked cake.

  “Then you better hustle into the Knitting Nest and claim it,” Petra advised. “Everything’s flying out of here like crazy.”

  “So a big success,” said Suzanne.

  “Totally,” agreed Petra. “In fact, some of us gals who are also quilters have been so inspired; we’re going to do a quilt trail next month.”

  “Never heard of that,” said Suzanne.

  “Oh,” said Petra, “it’ll be really neat. We’re going to display large wooden quilt squares as well as some actual quilts on the sides of historic barns, churches, and homes. Then there’ll be an accompanying quilt trail map that will lead tourists along the most scenic back roads and also indicate fun stops like antique shops, farmer’s markets, restaurants, and orchards.”

  “Wow,” said Suzanne. “Talk about weaving history into the mix and helping boost business! I bet you can even partner with the county historical society and get lots of sponsors, too.”

  “I think so.” Petra smiled.

  “In fact, I’ll do anything I can to help,” said Suzanne. She nodded toward a couple of cakes that were cooling on the window ledge. “What’s the deal with those cakes? For us?”

  Petra shook her head. “Nope. Special order for Carmen Copeland. Gonna make her a cake in the shape of a handbag.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Suzanne. “Really?”

  Petra nodded. “Carmen ordered it when she was here yesterday. Even gave me a magazine photo to work from. See?” Petra reached in her apron pocket and pulled out a Vogue ad that featured a fancy pastel blue quilted leather bag with a chain strap. “For her grand opening tomorrow.”

  “Gadz,” said Suzanne. Carmen really was going overboard to woo the local ladies.

  “Hey, take a plate of scones into the Knitting Nest, will you? Those ladies have been holed up in there all day.”

  “Gotcha,” said Suzanne.

  But just as she grabbed the scones from the display case, just as she was about to swerve into the Knitting Nest, Suzanne spotted Sheriff Doogie edging his way through the front door. So she changed direction and headed him off.

  “Suzanne,” said Doogie, sweeping his hat from his head, running a hand through his thinning gray hair, all in one motion. “What’s going on?” He seemed surprised and curious to see so many women sitting around with knitting needles clacking and balls of yarn unrolling.

  “A Knit-In,” she told him. “It’s a kind of charity event.”

  “Hah,” was his response.

  “I don’t mean to criticize, Sheriff, but you’re looking a little discombobulated.”

  “Heck of a thing,” said Doogie. “We got an anonymous tip this morning on a couple of guys who were growing marijuana.”

  “No kidding.�
� Suzanne let her uneasiness come across as surprise. “Wow.”

  “And then we got a call about those wild boar are running around the county, tramping through yards and digging up gardens.”

  “Hard to catch,” said Suzanne.

  Doogie glanced toward the counter where his eye wandered to the pastry case. The action was not lost on Suzanne.

  “You got time for a cup of coffee?” Suzanne offered. “And maybe a scone?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Doogie.