Authors: Laura Childs
Suzanne recalled that Charlie had pointedly talked about missed mortgage payments,
which would put anybody on edge. But to spare Elise some embarrassment, she said,
“I think he was unhappy about his financial situation at the bank.”
Elise ducked her head and said, “So you know about that?”
“Well…yes.”
“We’re way behind on our loan payments,” said Elise, looking grim.
“Have you tried dealing directly with the bank?” said Suzanne. “Asking for more time?
A grace period, perhaps?”
Elise nodded. “It didn’t work. They’re putting our farm into foreclosure.”
“That’s awful.” Suzanne felt a surge of anger for all the hard-working folks who were
going through this kind of financial nightmare right now. It just wasn’t right.
Elise looked down at her feet and mumbled, “I’m terrified about Charlie. He’s been
talking crazy for a couple of weeks now. Muttering threats and cooking up imaginary
scenarios. You know, ways to get back at the bank.”
“But Charlie wouldn’t actually
do
anything, would he?” said Suzanne. “He wouldn’t…retaliate?”
Elise shifted from one foot to the other, obviously upset and nervous. “Uh, I just
don’t know.”
“Dear lord,” said Suzanne, “have you mentioned any of this to Sheriff Doogie?”
Elise’s face twisted in pain. “No! If I did, the sheriff might come out and arrest
Charlie!”
“Well, I know that Gene Gandle definitely overheard Charlie,” said Suzanne. “So, chances
are, Gene’s already mentioned Charlie’s rants to Doogie.” In fact, she knew he had.
“Oh dear,” said Elise.
“I wish I could help, but…”
“You
can
help,” said Elise. “The investigation into Ben Busacker’s death is centered right
here at the Cackleberry Club. Maybe you could kind of, you know, keep your eyes and
ears open. See what suspects Sheriff Doogie comes up with. And then…let me know.”
“I’d feel funny doing that,” said Suzanne.
Elise took a step forward and gripped her arm. “Please!”
Suzanne gazed into the desperate face of Elise Steiner. “Okay,” she said. “I can’t
promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Bless you,” said Elise. Her voice was practically a sob.
Still, Suzanne was conflicted.
Her husband might be about to lose his
farm to a greedy bank,
she thought.
But I shouldn’t have promised to spy for
her. Oh man, but I did.
And then, directly on the heels of that thought was:
What if I find out that Charlie Steiner really did engineer Ben Busacker’s death?
Then what? Would that put me in danger?
I
T
seemed like an eternity before Elise Steiner finally released her vise-like grip
on Suzanne’s arm. But she did. And even though she gave another whispered, “Thank
you,” worry still draped the woman’s face like a shroud, and her narrow shoulders
sagged.
Suzanne watched as the wounded Elise retreated from the Knitting Nest and trudged
out into the icy landscape. Then she gave a sigh of relief.
She needed to play major catch-up with Doogie concerning the investigation. It had
been less than twenty-four hours since she’d last talked to him, and now she was wondering
exactly what sort of progress he’d made. Had Doogie learned anything more about the
wire? Had he pinpointed any disgruntled bank customers who might be suspects? Was
he getting anywhere at all?
Doogie, where are you on this thing?
she thought to herself.
Talk to me.
Call me. Text me. Send an SOS. Something.
Gazing around the Knitting Nest, trying to organize her thoughts, Suzanne couldn’t
shake the notion that Charlie Steiner might possibly be connected to that awful night.
Her mind kept stumbling over one thought: could an angry farmer have been
that
angry that he actually stretched a deadly thin wire in a snowstorm, in the middle
of winter in order to lop off someone’s head?
The notion chilled her. It would mean Steiner had slipped from normalcy into seriously
psychotic behavior.
Was that what had happened?
Suzanne had no idea. All she had was a bushel basket full of conjecture. And now she
was trying to placate a nervous, desperate wife who was worried about her husband’s
culpability.
Jeez.
Suzanne picked up a stray strand of soft, white fiber and wound it around her finger.
Then she shook her head to try to clear her thoughts. How on earth, she wondered,
did professional psychologists and psychiatrists hack it? Chewing over the hidden
motives and misexpressed emotions of highly imperfect people, all with their troubles
and confusions, definitely had to be challenging. In fact, it could drive a person
crazy!
Stepping out into the café, Suzanne noted that Toni was standing at the counter, ringing
up the last of their morning customers. Which meant…holy guacamole! It was almost
time for lunch. And time to put herself on fast forward.
It wasn’t until she had peeled a mess of carrots for Petra’s carrot-apple cole slaw
that Suzanne mentioned her conversation with Elise Steiner.
“Are you going to help her?” Petra asked.
“I kind of promised I would,” said Suzanne, “but now I’m nervous about the whole thing.”
“That’s because you’re playing both ends,” said Petra. “Trying to get information
from Doogie while conveying any concern he might have about Charlie to Elise.”
“Yes,” said Suzanne. “That’s about the size of it. So how do I get out of my predicament?”
“You don’t,” sang Petra. “A promise is a promise.”
“You’re no help,” said Suzanne.
“You just need to find out how Doogie’s investigation is going,” suggested Petra.
“If he’s moved in another direction, then the whole Charlie Steiner thing is a moot
point.”
“You think?”
“No,” said Petra, “I don’t.” She dipped a wooden spoon into a simmering vat of soup
and tasted it. Cocked her head, then added a pinch more salt.
“Chalkboard time,” said Toni, as she careened into the kitchen with her last tub of
dirty dishes. “Better get the lunch specials up on the board before the thundering
horde makes a return appearance.”
Suzanne grabbed a stick of yellow chalk and gazed at Petra. “So what’s it gonna be?”
“Our soup du jour,” said Petra, “is tomato and egg drop soup served with a chunk of
toasted Italian bread. That’s pretty much a meal in itself.”
“Got it,” said Suzanne. “What else?”
“Seize-the-Day Caesar Salad,” said Petra, “topped with sliced chicken. And Toasted
Tuna Melties with carrot cole slaw, and gingerbread cake to round out the menu.”
Suzanne got busy with the chalkboard then, writing everything down and adding prices.
When she got to the gingerbread cake, she scrawled $2.99 next to it, then erased the
price with her hand and changed it to $3.99. She decided a few extra bucks would help
fluff the bottom line.
Ten minutes later customers began showing up.
“It’s a slam dunk day,” Suzanne said to Toni, as they stood behind the counter grabbing
more coffee cups and silverware.
“You got that right,” said Toni, wiggling her hips.
“You’re in a feisty mood. And what, pray tell, is with that peek of pink bra you’ve
been sporting all morning?”
“Helps generate tips,” said Toni.
“Ah,” said Suzanne. “And is it working?”
“Oh yeah, baby,” grinned Toni. “It’s working.
I’m
working.”
“Just…take it easy, okay? This is the Cackleberry Club, not the Victoria’s Secret
runway show.”
“That’s okay,” said Toni, giving a slow wink. “ ’Cause I’m no angel!”
A
T
quarter to one, just when Suzanne thought lunch was winding down, just when she thought
she could take a
break, Ed Rapson pushed his way into the Cackleberry Club trailed by the pale, mousy
Hamilton Wick. Both men were dressed in conservative black suits and white shirts.
The only color in their outfits was the narrow, red-striped rep ties they wore.
“Gentlemen,” said Suzanne brightly, as she showed them to a sunny table. “Nice to
see you both. Even though circumstances at the bank aren’t the best, I hope you’ve
brought your appetites.”
Rapson and Wick settled in at their table.
“Nice to see you, Suzanne,” said Ham Wick. He was a pleasant man, who always spoke
kindly to her.
“I was so sorry about Ben Busacker,” she told Wick. “Especially since it all…” She
made a gesture that ended up as a shrug.
“Happened here,” said Wick, nodding. “And I’m equally sorry for you, Suzanne. I know
it couldn’t have been easy for you.”
Suzanne saw what looked like true sorrow in Wick’s eyes, and said, “I understand Busacker’s
funeral is going to take place tomorrow?”
“That’s right,” said Ed Rapson, jumping in. “The body’s been released, so there’s
no reason to delay.”
“Are you coming?” Wick asked.
“Certainly,” said Suzanne. Her heart went out to Ham Wick, who she knew had been passed
over for bank president in favor of Ben Busacker. Would probably be passed over again,
if Lester Drummond had his way.
“I’ll have the soup,” said Rapson, who obviously wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“Tuna melt,” said Wick, smiling at Suzanne.
But as Suzanne jotted down their orders, Ham Wick surprised her.
“Suzanne,” said Wick, “perhaps you might consider giving Mr. Rapson here your vote
of confidence.”
Suzanne looked up and blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You know,” said Wick, “vouch for me. You being a local business owner and all.”
“Vouch for what?” asked Suzanne.
“He’s lobbying for the bank president’s job,” Rapson barked out. He also seemed amused.
“Is that so?” said Suzanne. She didn’t know what else to say. Hamilton Wick had never
struck her as a go-getter. In fact, he’d probably be the least-effective bank president
she could think of.
“Anyway,” said Wick, almost stumbling over his words now, “your vote of confidence
would go a long way.”
“Would it really?” Suzanne asked Rapson.
A smarmy smile crawled across Rapson’s beefy face. “Sure. Why not?” he said.
“I think,” said Suzanne, tapping her pen against her order book, “that a kinder, gentler
banking environment would be a breath of fresh air in Kindred. And if Hamilton Wick
can make that happen, then so much the better.”
“Thank you,” said Wick, beaming.
“Hrmmp,” said Rapson.
“G
UESS
what?” Suzanne said to Petra in the kitchen. “Now Ham Wick wants to be bank president.”
“Good lord,” said Petra. “The man is afraid of his own shadow.”
“I need two more tuna melts,” said Toni, pushing her way into the kitchen.
“Hold your horses,” said Petra. “We’ve just had a hot news flash.” She gave a wicked
grin. “As opposed to a garden variety hot flash.”
Toni glanced from Suzanne to Petra. “What are you crazy ladies talking about?”
“Hamilton Wick is lobbying for the bank president’s job,” explained Suzanne.
“Our Ham Wick?” said Toni. “The guy who’s the spitting
image of Mister Rogers? The guy who drives, like, two miles an hour even when there’s
bare pavement?
That
guy?”
Suzanne nodded. “Yup.”
“He’d be terrible,” said Toni. “He’s walking milquetoast.”
“But maybe a better choice than Lester Drummond?” said Petra.
“Those are my choices?” said Toni. “Heck, I’d rather do my banking online.”
“Don’t do it!” cried Petra. “You’ll end up losing your money to some crazy offshore
bank in the Caymans or some Nigerian scam artist. Besides, honey, you’re not that
computer savvy to begin with.”
“I could learn,” said Toni. “I could buy myself one of those iPods.”
“iPads,” said Suzanne.
“Whatever,” said Toni.
“H
ERE
you go,” said Suzanne, dropping off the orders for Rapson and Wick. “And don’t forget,
we’ve got gingerbread cake for dessert.”
But Wick was suddenly looking downhearted, as if Rapson had been chewing him out.
Or putting him down.
“Don’t you think, Ms. Dietz,” said Rapson, “that our bank requires a candidate who
projects an air of absolute confidence?”
Hamilton Wick’s face turned strawberry pink.
Suzanne cleared her throat. Even though she didn’t think Wick was the right candidate,
she hated to see the man pilloried. “The bank president’s job requires the most qualified
candidate you can find,” she said, addressing Rapson. “From a public-relations standpoint
alone, it’s a vital position in Kindred.”
“What’s Kindred got to do with it?” said Rapson sharply.
“Beg your pardon?” said Suzanne.
“Mills City Banks is going to choose the best person for the job according to our
corporate criteria,” snapped Rapson. “Not Kindred’s needs.” His brows beetled together.
“This is hardly a popularity contest.”
“I’m not suggesting that,” Suzanne replied firmly. “All I’m saying is that the townspeople
view the person who holds that particular post as a civic and business leader. Someone
who understands the ins and outs of banking, as well as the economic needs of the
people who live here. Your choice of bank president would hopefully take that into
account.”
“That’s a lot for a one-horse town like Kindred to ask,” said Rapson, snickering.
“A one-horse town with a one-horse sheriff, I might add. Your man Doogie acts like
he just walked off the set of
The Andy Griffith Show
.” Rapson let loose a belly laugh while Wick ducked his head and turned an even more
embarrassed shade of red.
“Excuse me,” said Suzanne, her eyes blazing. “You’re referring to
this
town? The one where your bank is located? Because if you don’t feel our residents
are
worthy
of your financial services, I’m sure we could make alternate arrangements with the
bank in Jessup.”
Rapson’s eyes narrowed into piggy little slits, and his mouth opened and closed like
a catfish that had been snagged and was drawing its last breath. “You’ve got a smart
mouth on you, lady,” he snarled.