Eggs Benedict Arnold

by Laura Childs

  Suzanne delivered her scones, then scampered back and poured coffee into an oversized white ceramic mug for Doogie. She placed a scone on a plate, tapped on a dollop of Devonshire cream, then slid the whole shebang across the counter to him. While Doogie munched and slurped, she quizzed him gently.

  “So what’s the deal with the marijuana guys?” Suzanne asked. “You think they were running a meth lab, too?”

  “Not that I could see.” Doogie took another bite, half closed his eyes, and chewed appreciatively. “Dang, these are good.”

  “Petra whips up a tasty scone,” agreed Suzanne. She waited a couple more beats. “Do you suppose those guys are somehow connected to the murders?” Doogie stopped chewing for a moment and stared at her. “Why would you say that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because people will chitchat and try to draw a connection?”

  “The nice thing about living in a small town,” muttered Doogie, “is that when you don’t know what you’re doing, somebody else does.”

  “Good one,” said Suzanne.

  Doogie finished his scone, then turned an eye on the pastry case once again.

  “Another one?” she asked. “To keep up your strength?”

  Doogie nodded. “I need to stay at the top of my game.”

  “Because you’re up for reelection, too,” said Suzanne.

  “Ayup, and I intend to get it,” said Doogie, though his eyes suddenly seemed troubled.

  “You know Mayor Mobley will bad-mouth you like crazy if you don’t solve these murders,” Suzanne told him.

  “The old fart already is. Plus he’s standing squarely behind Bob Senander. So much for loyalty.”

  “Does Senander have any real experience?”

  “He’s been highway patrol for eleven years.”

  “So ... a serious contender,” said Suzanne.

  “Yup,” was Doogie’s tight reply.

  A few minutes later, Doogie slid off his stool, hitched at his belt, and said, “Gotta get back out to that farm. Walk the scene again.”

  “Sounds exciting,” said Suzanne.

  “It ain’t,” Doogie assured her. “Law enforcement ain’t nearly as glamorous as they make it look on TV.”

  “Nothing really is, is it?”

  “To top things off,” said Doogie, “we found a darn mule wandering around. Now we’re gonna have to find a home for him.”

  “I could take him,” offered Suzanne.

  Doogie planted himself squarely and squinted at her. “What on earth for?”

  “Keep my horse company. You know, like a stable mate.”

  “Cost you fifty bucks. The Deer County Humane Society’s gonna have to trailer him over.”

  “Bill me.”

  As Doogie slid out the door, Toni magically appeared at Suzanne’s elbow, like some sort of friendly ghost. “You think he suspects it was our tip?” she whispered.

  Suzanne grimaced. “I sincerely hope not.”

  Chapter twenty two

  Humming Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl,” Suzanne puttered around in her kitchen. It was almost seven by the time she got home, but since she’d snarfed a few tea sandwiches earlier, she wasn’t all that hungry. So, after feeding Baxter, praising him to high heaven for eating, and giving him a Milk-Bone for good measure, Suzanne bent down and searched her refrigerator.

  Locating a thawed chicken breast, she decided on a quick version of chicken Normandy. Butter, little bit of flour, touch of brown sugar, then a dash of cream, a few apple slices, and the chicken. She whipped it up fast in an eight-inch sauté pan, dreaming about the restaurant she’d always wanted to open, planning the pluperfect menu in her head.

  Locally produced trout, of course, from Asbury Trout Farm over by Jackson. The tender pink meat grilled over apple wood and drizzled with a light sauce of white wine, butter, lemon, and capers.

  Got to have roast pork on the menu, too, she decided. Accompanied by a squash puree, baked figs, and maybe a medley of root vegetables.

  And a nice duck breast. Maybe served with cranberry compote, potato gratin, and grilled chanterelle mushrooms.

  Unless, of course, Carmen Copeland bought the Driesden and Draper Funeral Home, converted it to a fine dining establishment, and hired herself a big name chef. Pulled the rug right out from under her. And wouldn’t that be a dandy kettle of fish!

  Or would it?

  Would people choose to wine and dine in a former funeral home? Would Carmen convert the embalming room, with all its stainless-steel cabinets and sinks, into a kitchen?

  That notion made Suzanne shudder. And if it affected her that way, then wouldn’t others be just as squeamish? Yeah, maybe. Hopefully.

  Suzanne plated her chicken Normandy, poured a half glass of Chardonnay, placed everything onto a tray, and carried it into the living room. Settled onto the couch and snapped on the TV.

  She nibbled a few bites, watching an action film about Vietnam. The soundtrack featuring songs by the Doors, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and the Rolling Stones.

  ‘Nam, she thought. Love the music, hate the subject.’

  Grabbing the remote control, Suzanne spun through the cable channels. Found sports, a reality show where people were frantically stuffing raw squid into their mouths, some kind of fake sports show with a big rubber obstacle course, another reality show, reruns of an old sitcom about a girl’s school where everybody was smart and rich, and news. She watched a few minutes of CNN, decided her mutual funds were still taking it in the shorts, then turned the TV off. Suzanne wondered if this might be the evening she’d start reading People of the Book. And let her gaze wander to her bookshelf.

  Actually, there were quite a few books stacked in her to-be-read pile. Three mysteries, four cookbooks, and a tome on Napoleon that, for some reason, had seemed exceedingly appealing when she’d stumbled across it in the catalogs the publishing houses sent her.

  Something else caught her eye, too. A kind of scrapbook Walter had put together after he’d served as an army doctor in Kuwait during the Gulf War. She smiled, thinking of the stories he’d told her. And as those memories flooded back to her, she wandered over to the bookshelf and picked it up.

  Suzanne turned the stiff pages, gazing at the black and white photos, her interest tempered by sadness. Walter had been proud of his service in the Gulf War, and he’d toted his little Nikon along to chronicle his experiences. Which, all in all, had turned out to be pretty amazing.

  There was the helicopter flight into Iraq to airlift out some severely wounded marines. In the process, they’d picked up a wounded Iraqi boy whose leg had been partially crushed. They weren’t supposed to fly the boy back to Kuwait, of course; it was against regulations. But Walter had done it anyway, saving lives and limbs in the process.

  Turning another page, Suzanne smiled proudly. Here was a grainy black-and-white photo of Walter and three other doctors posing in front of a dusty Humvee. The desert docs they’d called themselves. Proud, tough, compassionate.

  She’d met Walter after his service, but had been fascinated by his stories. And his courage.

  Suzanne continued to turn pages, wondering what these people were doing today, some twenty years later? Soldiers cast back as civilians. Had their memories long since dimmed? What were their feelings about the more recent Iraq War?

  She smiled as she scanned the rest of the photos. “All good men,” she murmured to herself.

  The final photo showed Walter and another man standing in front of a large tent.

  Walter and another doc?

  Suzanne studied the picture. No, this fellow was a combat soldier. Dressed in telltale desert camo gear, he had an M16 slung carelessly across his body. The two were facing each other, all sunburned faces and crinkled eyes.

  Suzanne was about to close the album when she glanced at the photo again. There was something about it. She squinted carefully, studying the photo. And noticed that the soldier’s camo jacket carried the name tag Dillworth.

  Her bra
in pinged with sudden recognition.

  Good heavens! Could this be the same guy she’d seen in the park last Sunday? The one Petra had given a handout to this morning? Whose jacket Petra thought bore the name Dilley or Dillon?

  Suzanne carried the book over to the leather sofa and sat down hard.

  Could this be the same fellow who was also a suspect in two murders? Suzanne shifted uncomfortably and the cushions let loose a low whoosh.

  The same guy Walter had reminisced about, had referred to as Dil?

  Oh jeez! It couldn’t be, could it?

  She thought it could.

  But what was this guy doing in Kindred? And how was he involved? Was he involved?

  Had he come here to find Walter? Or was something more sinister afoot?

  Suzanne knew she had to find out. Had to get some answers. She tapped her foot against the glass table, setting off a vibration that made the silverware on her tray jangle.

  Could this homeless guy still be holed up in the caves, like Doogie had thought?And if she went looking for him, to ask a few questions, would she be at risk?

  Suzanne pondered that notion for a few moments. Wondered about the wisdom of taking things into her own hands.

  Bad idea. Really bad idea.

  She settled back on the sofa, glancing over at Baxter, who was stretched out on the carpet, and said softly, “Hey Bax.”

  His tail twitched once.

  She hesitated, then said, “Want to go for a ride?”

  Driving through the dark streets, Suzanne’s brain whirred like a cyclotron.

  Tuesday night, Sheriff Doogie had definitely been on the lookout for a homeless guy who’d been seen wandering through town. Doogie had postulated that the man was hunkered down in one of the caves that honeycombed the hills and bluffs just outside Kindred.

  And Petra’s homeless guy with the faded camo jacket...

  Same guy? Could be. Had to be.

  The rational part of Suzanne’s brain told her she shouldn’t go looking for this guy by her lonesome. She should get on the horn to Doogie, tell him what she knew, and hope that he’d round up a proper search team.

  On the other hand, Doogie and his deputies might go cowboying in and launch a SWAT team-type assault. Scare the bejeebers out of the guy. Roust him, drag him down to the law enforcement center, shout questions all night.

  Better if she and Baxter go alone?

  No, probably not.

  But, for now, that was how it was going to be.

  “Easy, Bax,” Suzanne told her dog as she clipped a long leash on him, then stood aside as he jumped from the car. It was pitch-black in the empty parking lot just below Bluff Creek Park. Low-hanging clouds had driven the temperature into the low forties, a crisp, nagging wind carried the promise of rain, and Suzanne was pretty sure there was another storm hanging out over the Dakotas, ready to steam-roll its way in.

  Baxter stretched languidly, lifted his leg on a nearby post, then turned to stare at Suzanne.

  “Just do your thing,” she told him in a low whisper. “Sniff around, see if you come up with anything.”

  That seemed to suit Baxter just fine and he was soon leading Suzanne along a narrow path, pulling her deep into the dark, dense woods even as the path he chose rose in a steady grade. Bare branches tugged at Suzanne’s hair as they scrunched through overgrown passages of buckthorn. Clusters of burrs snagged on her denim jacket.

  Twenty minutes of hard climbing led them to a small outcropping of rocks where the Parks Committee had constructed a small wooden bench on a sort of ledge. Feeling slightly winded, Suzanne plopped down to rest. Baxter took a cue from her and sat back on his haunches. From up here, Suzanne could peer down a steep gorge and, through the haze, catch a few twinkles of light from town. The oaks and poplars had already lost most of their leaves. The rest would soon be stripped off if more wind and rain moved in. A chill Midwestern autumn, winter lurking like a hungry lion.

  Still, Suzanne thought the view peaceful from her perch. And pretty in a kind of Norman Rockwell old-timey way. You’d never guess two murders had taken place in this innocuous little town within the span of a couple days. Never guess it in a million years.Baxter stood up and stared fixedly into the woods.

  “What’s wrong, Bax?” Suzanne asked. “Something out there?” But she knew a whole host of nocturnal critters were probably scrabbling about, in their element and practically undetected. Raccoons, opossums, foxes, coyotes, and cougars. Even the troop of wild boar Doogie had mentioned.

  And a murderer?

  Yeah, maybe. Maybe so.

  Suzanne stood up and reeled in Baxter’s leash. From here on the going was much more rugged. Lots of twisting paths that jagged around sandstone outcroppings that sheltered small caves.

  Lots of caves.

  She’d crawled through a few of these caves when she was a kid, but had always been jittery about exploring the deeper ones. The caves whose walls narrowed sharply, forcing you to scramble on hands and knees or worm your way along on your belly as passages drilled sinuously into the hillside.

  Keeping Baxter at her side in a “heel” position, Suzanne picked her way carefully up the hillside. Loose rock and sand made the climb arduous. So did not knowing what lay beyond every twist and turn.

  Dark mouths of caves yawned at her like black holes. But none looked inhabited.

  “Nothing here,” she whispered to Baxter. She’d covered half of one side of the bluff and hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anything. Human or animal.

  Maybe the homeless guy wasn’t up here at all, she decided. Maybe he’d been scared off by Sheriff Doogie’s initial probe. Maybe he’d just boogied on out of town.

  Or maybe not. Maybe a guy who’d been army trained, who’d learned how to dig himself into a hostile desert environment, wouldn’t go for the most obvious hidey-hole.

  So where ?

  Suzanne lifted her eyes and scoured the peak above her. Could she even get up there?

  Only one way to find out.

  Hands clawing for a stable rock, feet probing for foot holds, Suzanne slowly climbed the smooth rock face. Baxter stood below, leash clipped to a tree, watching her progress, seemingly happy to remain behind and hold down the fort.

  Upper-body strength was not Suzanne’s forte and her shoulder muscles trembled from the exertion. This rock face was far steeper, the elevation much higher than she’d initially thought. Her fingers burned from clutching minimal handholds. There was no way she could keep this up.

  Best thing—the smartest thing—to do was ease her way back down to where Baxter was waiting, pray she’d find the same rocks and nubbins to grab onto for her descent.

  Standing practically spread-eagled against the cliff face, her face beaded with sweat, Suzanne cranked her head sideways to wipe her forehead on her jacket sleeve.

  And there, off to her left, she caught the faint orange glow of a campfire.

  Easing herself across the cliff, grasping for foot and finger holds, Suzanne moved with renewed energy. Boldly, yet quietly. She strained to keep her breathing under control, though her curiosity was revved to warp speed.

  Just one quick look, she promised herself. I’ll see what I can see and then I’m outta here!

  Her left foot searched for a solid perch, finally found it. She shifted her weight onto the rock, testing for stability. It felt good. Suzanne paused, trying to gather her energy and her wits, then tilted her head back, ever so slightly.

  He stood, silhouetted in the mouth of the cave, a foot or so above her. With the glow of the fire behind him, he looked like a dark, almost primordial figure. Close enough to casually lift a boot and step on her fingers if he felt like it. Crush them like a pack of saltines.

  Chapter twenty three

  But he didn’t. Instead, the man reached down and extended a hand.

  And Suzanne made a split-second decision she hoped she wouldn’t regret for the rest of her life. She reached up and grabbed his hand.

  Like a dream se
quence that unfolded in slow motion, Suzanne felt herself being hoisted higher and higher. Dangling precipitously, her legs paddling in thin air, Suzanne scrambled for purchase until, finally, finally, she connected with solid rock and found herself standing on a narrow ledge.

  Heart hammering in her chest, Suzanne said, “Who are you?”

  The man turned his back on her and retreated into a shallow cave. Crouching down, he stuck another branch into the fire. It crackled, popped, and released a burst of sparks that reminded Suzanne of fireflies.

  “Excuse me?” she said, taking a step forward.

  The man bowed his head and seemed to fold in on himself, pulling himself into a cross-legged position, his back against the wall of the cave.