Authors: Laura Childs
“A crossbow,” said
Petra. She was standing at her enormous black industrial stove, dropping
silver-dollar-sized
pancakes onto the sizzling grill. It was Eggs Mornay Mon
day at the
Cackleberry Club, so she was also stirring a pan of cheese sauce, adding
fistful after fistful of freshly grated
Swiss cheese. Suzanne and Petra
had just filled her in on
last
night’s bizarre incident.
“A crossbow with a
carbon arrow,” said Toni, as she
laid out large oval-shaped white platters, the better to
ac
commodate
the Cackleberry Club’s generous servings. “At
least that’s what one of the
ambulance guys thought.”
“Sounds nasty,” said
Petra, as she flipped a line of
golden pancakes. She turned, gave a little grimace, and
fo
cused
on Suzanne. “So what did Doogie think? Possible
hunting accident?”
“Not unless someone
was hunting white-tailed deer at
night,” said Suzanne. She dreaded the idea of someone
skulk
ing
around the Cackleberry Club, stalking prey through a
night scope. Or maybe she’d just
seen too many movies where
crazy Bruce Willis-type international hired killers
peered
through
scopes and assassinated heads of state. Then jumped
off rooftops and hang-glided
away like bats in the night
“What about that herd
of wild boar that’s been tromp
ing around the countryside, ripping up gardens and scaring
people silly?” asked Petra. “Maybe some hunter had been trailing them. He
thought he was going to nail one,
but made a terrible mistake.” She nodded to
herself, liking
her theory. “The hunter hit Peebler instead, then got scared
and ran away.” She
looked up with a slightly hopeful look.
“It
could
have been a hunting accident.”
“Something tells me,”
said Suzanne, “that our shooter
didn’t
have a pig roast in mind.”
“What’s really
important,” responded Petra, “is that you
and Toni had a guardian angel
watching over you. That nei
ther
of you were injured or killed.”
“Or Baxter,” said
Suzanne. The loss of her four-legged,
furry companion would have been too much to bear.
Espe
cially
since it hadn’t been quite a year since Walter’s death.
Petra
heaped hash browns onto platters, added short
stacks of pancakes, then placed
two maple-flavored pork
patties next to each stack. Satisfied with her
arrangements,
she wiped her hands on her apron. “Murder?” she asked,
glancing up at
Suzanne, voicing the one word they’d all
jigged and danced around.
“That’s the notion
swirling in Doogie’s brain,” said Su
zanne. She nodded toward the back door. “He’s out
there
right
now, scuffling around in the dust, searching for clues.”
“Working up a hefty
appetite, too, I’ll bet,” said Petra.
Petra was an imposing gal of fifty who enjoyed
fly-fishing,
knitting, quilting, and feeding people, not necessarily in
that exact order. Her
passion for food had come early in life. She’d been the only nine-year-old kid
oh her block
who preferred reruns of Julia Child over episodes of
Scooby-Doo.
Toni balanced three
platters of food on her left arm, then
grabbed another with her right
hand. She gave Suzanne a
worried look and asked, “Have you told Petra about Jane?”
Suzanne shook her head
while Petra, who’d begun sift
ing ingredients for another bowl of pancake batter, sud
denly froze,
“What about Jane?”
Petra asked in a chilly voice.
Toni answered. “I
think Doogie’s going to be taking a
hard look at her. Especially after last night’s
little shouting
match.”
Petra’s
brows knit together. “You told Doogie about
that? Why on earth would you
even mention it?”
“We kind of had to,”
said Toni. “Doogie wanted to know
what Peebler was doing at the Cackleberry Club
and...”
“You didn’t
have to tell him about their silly little squab
ble,” Petra interrupted. “You
could have said that Peebler
was here for the read dating event and just left it at
that.”
She
shook her head. “I’m positive their little tiff was completely unrelated to the
murder. Jane would... Jane would
never!”
Suzanne tried to be
diplomatic. “Petra, I know Jane is
very dear to you.”
“Yes, she is,” Petra
said, sniffling. “She’s one of my
closest friends. When Donny was first diagnosed
with Alz
heimer’s,
Jane never left my side. She went with us to all
the doctor’s appointments and
even drove us to the Mayo
Clinic
for a second opinion.”
“But Peebler’s death,
which really does look like murder, is a black mark against the Cackleberry
Club,” Su
zanne
told her. “And we don’t want
that
hanging over our heads. So the sooner
everything’s cleared up the better.”
“Still,” said Petra, “Jane’s
my friend, just like you and Toni are. You know I’d never give Doogie any
reason to
suspect
either of you.” Petra stopped talking and clutched
her stainless-steel bowl,
deciding to take her anger and
frustration out on the dry ingredients. As she attacked the
batter-to-be with a balloon whisk, her swirling circles car
ried so much force
Suzanne was afraid she’d dent the metal.
Suzanne tried her best
to comfort Petra. “Jane and Peebler were arguing, Petra. And believe me,
everyone heard
them. So it’s better Doogie learned it from us first. That
way we can run interference.”
Petra’s circles got
smaller and her breathing relaxed. “I
suppose you’re right.” She glanced up. “Sorry,
didn’t mean
to fly off the
handle like that.”
“Hey,” said Toni, “we’re
friends, remember? No need
to
apologize.”
“Thank
you,” said Petra, as the bell over the front door
jingled, signaling the arrival of
more customers.
“Dang, it’s a busy
morning,” said Toni, bumping her hip
against the swinging door that separated the
kitchen from
the cafe
-
. “And I better deliver this stuff before it goes
cold!”
Alone with Petra,
Suzanne asked, “You okay?”
Petra nodded
vigorously. “Better now, yes.”
“We’ll get this thing
figured out,” said Suzanne.
Petra
lifted a corner of her white apron and touched it
gently to her eyes. “Promise?”
“Promise,” said
Suzanne, meaning it.
Out
in
the cafe, Suzanne grabbed a couple of coffeepots
and started pouring refills.
French roast for most, Sumatran
for the more daring of the coffee drinkers. As she
slipped between tables, she noted that every seat in the house was
occupied, including
the wobbly stools lined up against their vintage marble-and-wood counter. If
another hungry body
arrived, they’d just have to cool their heels on the front porch.
But something funny
was going on, too. Many of the
customers had finished eating, but were lingering longer
than
normal over their cups of coffee. There was also a low buzz of conversation and
more than a few furtive eye darts.
Oh
man, they’re talking about Peebler. About the mur
der. Well, that’s not good.
Hurrying to the front
door to greet an elderly couple who’d just arrived, Suzanne said, “It’ll be
just a few minutes for a table.” Then decided a bit of friendly chitchat would
make them feel welcome as they waited. “What
brings you to the Cackleberry
Club this morning?” she
asked
in a breezy tone.
“We heard on the radio
about...” the man began excit
edly, until his wife gave him a determined elbow jab in
the
ribs.
“Breakfast,” the woman
finished in a brisk tone.
Suzanne groaned
inwardly. The Cackleberry Club’s unfor
tunate connection to the murder
was being broadcast across
small-town airwaves, in other words, via word of mouth.
Toni, who’d heard the
exchange, strolled past Suzanne
and said in passing, “By lunchtime we’ll have ‘em lined
up outside the door.
Folks are just getting curiouser and
curiouser.”
Suzanne nodded in
agreement. What happened to the good old days when a murder kept people
away
from a
place?
Ah, but those days were probably long gone, given today’s penchant for
ripped-from-the-headlines stories and
lust for true crime with all the gory details
tossed in for
good measure.
When a table of four finally left, Suzanne
quickly
cleared away dirty dishes, wiped it
down, and set it up for
the elderly couple.
“Here you
go,” said Suzanne, offering the husband and
wife a set of menus.
“You got eggs for
breakfast?” the old man asked.
“Absolutely,” she
told him. “There’s our special Eggs
Mornay as well as eggs Benedict, toad in the hole,
frittatas, Eggs in a Basket, and even Slumbering Volcanoes.”
“Why so many kinds of
eggs?” asked the woman.
Suzanne gave a slow
reptilian blink.
Don’t get out
much?
was the answer that
bubbled up inside her brain.
Instead she said, “Well, this
is
breakfast and we
are
the
Cackleberry Club.”
Zipping back to the
old brass cash register to ring up a
check, Suzanne noticed that the ruffled pink
Depression-
era
candy dish, normally filled with mints, was empty. And
the stack of Quilt Trail
brochures that also sat there had
been reduced to a single copy.
Gotta get some more,
Suzanne told herself,
snatching
up
the colorful tri-fold brochure and sticking it in her apron
pocket. Then, ten
minutes later, when things were finally
under control, Suzanne stepped
into the Book Nook and
dialed the number for the Logan County Historical
Society.
Arthur
Bunch, the director, answered the phone himself.
“Logan County Historical Society.”
“You’re
in early,” said Suzanne. There was dead air for a
moment, then she continued, “Hey,
Arthur, this is Suzanne
from
the Cackleberry Club.”
“Oh hello,” said
Bunch, sounding cheery now.
“Just wanted to tell
you that we’re down to our last copy
of the Quilt Trail map. Looks like you might have
a hit on
your hands.”
“Sure hope so,” replied
Bunch. “I’ve been putting in
twelve-hour days but loving every single minute. The buzz
we’re
getting over here is terrific. I think lots of folks are
planning to drive the trail!”
“It’s a great thing
for the county,” said Suzanne, “to
showcase all our historic buildings.” She
hesitated. “I hate
to add to your workload, but we sure could use some more
of those brochures. We’ve
been talking the Quilt Trail up
like crazy and, of course, Petra’s, completely gung ho.”
“I’ll get some to you
as soon as possible,” said Bunch.
“Wait a minute, are you by any chance serving
cranberry
almond
scones today? The kind with Devonshire cream?”
“It’s
our autumn special all this month,” Suzanne told
him. “Along with wild rice soup
and pumpkin pie.”
“Then I might just
bring those brochures over myself,”
enthused Bunch. “And I won’t even feel guilty
about deserting my post, I’ll just consider it multitasking.”
Arthur chuckled
loudly and Suzanne could almost see
his trademark bow tie moving up and down his wiry
throat
in
the process. Arthur Bunch was a gentle soul, with his bow ties and serviceable,
tweedy suits. He could have al
most been cast in a 1950s sitcom as the good-hearted
neigh
bor
or even the slightly bumbling but well-intentioned dad.
“See you soon, Arthur,”
Suzanne responded. Gazing
into the cafe, she saw that another table had come avail
able. Springing into
action, Suzanne rushed over and began clearing it off, vowing to one day hire a
full-time busboy—
one who didn’t have to be in school during their busiest
hours.