Authors: Laura Childs
Twin spots of color
bloomed on Petra’s cheeks. “I just remembered that I donated twenty dollars to
Peebler’s
mayoral
campaign.” Now she looked really worried. “Do you think the money ended up as
tips at that strip club?”
“Strippers have to
make a living, too,” reasoned Toni.
“Although Kit and the gals prefer to be called
exotic
dancers.”
“Same thing,” snorted
Petra, as she ferried her bowl to
the stove.
Toni moved in closer
to Suzanne. “When do you think
Doogie’s gonna pay Mike O’Dell a visit?”
“I’d be surprised if
he hasn’t already,” said Suzanne.
She’d called Doogie first thing this morning and
related all the information pretty much the way Kit had presented it.
Doogie had listened
carefully, thanked her, and promised
to follow up.
“You
spilled the beans to him, didn’t you?” said Toni.
“About Sasha.”
“You knew I would,”
said Suzanne. “Besides, Doogie’s
not a complete idiot. He’d have gotten around to Mike
O’Dell sooner or
later, and then he’d talk to Sasha and
probably even the manager...”
“Frankie,” supplied
Toni.
Pans rattled on the
stove. “At least Doogie’s not sniffing
after Jane anymore,” Petra
reasoned. “So thank goodness
for that. Now we can get on with our busy lives.”
“I suppose,” said
Suzanne. But somehow, she didn’t
think solving Peebler’s murder was going to be that
cut-and-dried.
“We’re supposed to
open in twenty minutes,” said Petra,
“and I’m not nearly ready for the breakfast rush.”
As she
grabbed
for a mixing spoon, the sleeve of her white chef’s
jacket caught a glass measuring
cup filled with dry oatmeal
and
sent it tumbling to the floor.
“Incoming!” said
Suzanne.
“Oh doodlebug!” yelped
Petra, doing a quick two-step
away from the flying glass. “Now look what I did.”
“Don’t anybody move,”
said Toni. She grabbed a broom
and dustpan and began sweeping up broken pieces of
glass.
“Besides, you can’t cry
over spilled...”
“Oatmeal,” finished
Petra, shaking her head and mak
ing a growling sound. “You know what? I feel like all the
nervous tension I have about Jane and Peebler is going to
shoot straight out my
fingertips and end up in my cooking.”
Toni
stopped sweeping and peered at her. “Um... seri
ously? Because that sounds
decidedly paranormal to me.”
But Petra
wasn’t about to be deterred. “Yes, seriously. When my heart and mind are filled
with loving thoughts,
the food is lovely, too. But anger and fear will only ...”
“Stick in
your throat,” said Toni. “Okay, I’m getting your message loud and clear.” She
paused. “You’re not
going to start speaking in tongues or anything, are you?”
“Well hardly,” said
Petra, looking a little annoyed.
“I know what,” said
Suzanne, grabbing a cream-colored
Red Wing crock from where it sat on a top shelf. “Let’s
take a
couple of moments for an affirmation.” Whenever
the ladies needed to lift their
mood or feed their spirits,
they reached for the crock instead of the cookie jar.
Well,
almost every time.
“Yeah, let’s,” Toni
enthused. The crock was filled with
inspirational thoughts and quotes they’d jotted
down and
tossed
in. The only exception being the note Toni had taped
on the outside, which read, “Open
in case of spiritual emer
gency!”
“You first,” said
Suzanne, pushing the jar toward Toni.
Toni reached in and
pulled out a yellow Post-it note.
Unfolding it, she read, “Your talent is God’s gift
to you.
What
you do with it is your gift back to God.” She smiled.
“I’m feeling better already.”
“I knew
you would,” said Suzanne. She pushed the
crock toward Petra. “Now you, Petra.”
Taking a deep breath,
Petra drew out a little scrap of
paper, then read it aloud. “I know God won’t give me
anything I can’t
handle. I just wish He didn’t trust me so
much.” Her face was lit with a
smile now. “Mother Teresa
said
that.”
“Sounds more like
you,” Toni told Petra.
“Maybe we’re kindred
spirits,” Petra murmured.
“I know
you are,” said Suzanne, pulling out her own
note and unfolding it.
“I hope you drew a
doozy,” said Toni.
Suzanne read it, then
gave an acknowledging nod. “I
think
I did.”
“What’s it say, honey?”
asked Petra.
Suzanne
cleared her throat then read, “Choose a job you
love, and you will never have to
work a day in your life.”
“That’s you, Suzie Q!”
Toni declared. “CEO, CFO, PR
lady
extraordinaire, tea connoisseur ...”
“And
chief bottle washer and dog trainer,” finished
Petra. “Group hug?’
“Group hug,” agreed
Toni, the three of them huddling
together, arms flung across each other’s shoulders,
heads
bowed
as they contemplated their affirmations as well as
the coming day.
Finally, Suzanne
glanced at the clock. “Okay,” she an
nounced, “time to roll.”
“Don’t forget the
love!” Toni called after her.
Five
customers were already lined up outside the Cackle
berry Club by the
time Suzanne unlocked the door. By the
time they were seated, another
twenty had arrived.
“Oh my gosh,” said
Toni, as she raced around the cafe
“we’re getting slammed.”
“Slammed equals
business,” Suzanne told her when she
caught up to her at the pastry case. “Which
translates into
revenue.”
Toni
suddenly looked interested. “Maybe I can buy
those new baby blue cowboy boots
I’ve had my eye on.”
“Hey,
you two,” Petra called from the pass-through,
“stop fooling around and take
some orders!”
Suzanne dashed into
the kitchen. “I’ve got orders.” She
glanced at her order pad. “Two Hot Mama Frittatas,
a short
stack
of cakes, and a Cackleberry scrambler.”
“Now you’re
talking,” said Petra, as she grabbed a brown
egg from a bowl of eggs and
cracked it one-handed.
“You
still want to drive the Quilt Trail this afternoon?” Suzanne asked. She was
fanning out strawberry slices on
top of a wedge of pineapple. Garnishes, in her opinion
were meant to be
eaten. And if they were healthy, so much
the better.
“Absolutely,” said
Petra. “And I can’t wait to get a gan
der at the oversized squares that my quilting
friends created
to mark the historic
points.”
“It’s a nifty idea,
all right,” Suzanne agreed.
“Oh hey,” said Petra,
dishing out scrambled eggs and sausage. “Toni’s orders are up. Will you take
them out to
her?’
“Gladly,” said
Suzanne. But when she ran out into the café and handed the orders off to Toni,
a new problem sud
denly
presented itself.
Mayor Mobley stood
poised in the front door of the
Cackleberry Club, his chest so puffed with pride he
looked
like
a balloon from Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. He
was dressed in his finest, which,
as always, looked discount
store tacky. His bright lime green golf shirt stretched
tight
across
his prominent stomach, his khaki slacks were a
muddy pinky beige.
Three of his own oversized campaign
buttons, featuring a slightly smudged image of his
piggy,
pudgy
face, were pinned to his shirt. Atop his head, a fluo
rescent golf cap sported a
button, too. Still, his outfit did
exactly what the mayor had hoped to accomplish.
Every
one in the restaurant turned
to stare.
Ever the campaigning
politico, Mayor Mobley grinned
and waved at those folks seated near him. Most nodded
and
waved
back. Allan Sharp, his flunky campaign manager,
stood a step behind him.
Suzanne sped over to
greet the mayor. “Good morning,
Mayor,” she said pleasantly. “Can I get you a table?”
Since
she
seemed to be stuck with Mobley for the moment, she was bound and determined
that he was going to sit down
at a table and eat, not just wander around at will,
annoying
her customers as he
tried to solicit votes.
Allan Sharp answered
instead. “Sure, we’ll take a
table.” Sharp was tall and angular, with greasy black
hair slicked back from his receding hairline. His movements were jerky and odd
and, for all his apparent thinness, his
stomach pouched out like he’d
just digested an entire rump
roast. Sharp wore a gold golf shirt and khaki pants, but
took
his
persona one step further with a heavy gold ID bracelet, gold neck chain, and
double rings on his thin, spidery
fingers.
Mayor Mobley held up
a hand. “Give me a minute. I
want
to greet my constituents.”
“You mean my
customers?” Suzanne shot back, as Mo
bley dove for the nearest table.
“With the election
just a week or so away, you can’t
blame the mayor for shifting into full campaign mode,”
Sharp
explained to her in a dreary monotone.
Suzanne
pulled out a chair and instructed Sharp to “sit!”
Just as if she was training Baxter.
Sharp complied, but
said, “We’ve only got time for a
cup of coffee. Lots of hard-charging on our agenda today.”
His thin
shoulders hunched forward and he managed a
dry chuckle. “We’re running this
pretty much like an old
fashioned
whistle-stop campaign.’
“That so?”
said Suzanne, failing to see any apparent
humor in his words.
Sharp’s long face
turned sober. “Just because his oppo
nent’s dead, Ms. Dietz, doesn’t mean we can
afford to sit
back and twiddle
our thumbs.”
“Strike while the iron
is hot, huh?” said Suzanne.
Sharp frowned. “When
you put it that way ...”
Suzanne had never
cared for Allan Sharp and now she decided her dislike ran even deeper. Sharp
was a snake-in-the-grass lawyer who’d made money in real estate by buying
large homes from elderly townsfolk and flipping them to yuppie types who
thought they wanted to live in a small
town without all the problems of
a big city. Then, of course,
they moved to Kindred and discovered that, even with its
picturesque old
Chicago brick buildings and Catawba Creek running through, it still had all the
problems of a
big city. Burglaries still occurred, cars were vandalized, the
infrastructure of bridges and roads continued to crumble as
time marched on. Drug
dealers and a few unsavory types stalked the tree-lined streets where craftsman
cottages and
stately American Gothic homes sat side by side, seemingly
unaware of the myriad
changes taking place.
Suzanne grabbed a
tray, placed coffee cups, napkins,
and spoons on it, then pulled a fresh pot of
French roast off
the burner. She carried it all to Sharp’s table.
“So kind of you,” oozed Sharp, watching her
pour out coffee and arrange the cream and sugar.
Suzanne tallied up a check and slapped it
down on the table, lest he think the coffee was gratis. “Always happy to oblige
a paying customer,” she said, flashing a brusque smile. Dodging away, Suzanne
skirted around the mayor, who was going great guns now.
“The election’s only ten days away!” Mobley
sputtered to a couple of farmers, who appeared colossally bored.
Suzanne sidled up to the counter where Toni
was garnishing a toasted bagel with sliced strawberries and a pat of cream
cheese.
“The mayor’s acting like Peebler is still
among the living and gaining momentum,” said Toni. “Instead of lying
in a pine box over at Driesden and Draper Funeral
Home.”
“We’re just not used to a candidate with a
professional campaign manager,” Suzanne replied in a sardonic tone.
“No
kidding,” sniggered Toni. “Most candidates just put up a couple of signs, pass
out a few flyers, and hope for the
best.”