Stake & Eggs (13 page)

“Really?” said Joey. He seemed jittery.

“Hey, big guy,” said Toni, “you ready for action?” Joey was a favorite of hers, and
she kidded him unmercifully about his tattoos, piercings, and chain jewelry.

“Ready,” said Joey. But his answer was flat as a pancake, and his usual enthusiasm
just wasn’t there.

“Then come on with me,” said Toni, grabbing him by the arm. “Let’s get started, my
friend.”

Suzanne smiled as she watched them head off, but her smile faded quickly. For some
reason, Joey didn’t seem quite like himself. Was he nervous about Busacker’s murder,
or something else? Sure, Joey had his sullen moments, like a lot of teenagers who
were at that awkward age between boy and young man. But he hadn’t quite made eye contact
with her, and Joey always—

“Doogie,” Petra rasped suddenly, glancing out the window. “Doogie’s here.”

All thoughts of Joey flew from Suzanne’s brain.

Petra wiped her hands against her apron, looking anxious. “Listen, if you’re going
to talk to Doogie about the murder, and I know you are, can you do it in the Book
Nook? After all, we’ve got customers coming.”

“No problem,” said Suzanne, even though the last couple of days had definitely been
fraught with problems. She made a dash for the front door, and just as Doogie stepped
in, Petra’s prediction came true. Three more cars, all bearing customers, pulled up
outside.

“W
HATCHA
got?” asked Doogie, once he’d settled into one of the chairs in the Book Nook.

“You tell me,” said Suzanne. “What’s new and improved on your end? Specifically in
the Busacker case?”

Doogie rubbed the back of his hand against his stubbly chin. “It’s pretty much been
nonstop since I saw you last. We’ve been conducting more tests on that wire, and I’ve
been following up on a couple of new leads.”

Suzanne waggled her fingers. “Concerning…?”

“Unhappy bank customers,” said Doogie.

“Are there unhappy bank customers?”

Doogie frowned. “I just said there were.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I can’t really divulge that information.”

“Sure you can,” said Suzanne. “You’ve told me everything else.”

But Doogie remained stubborn. “Not really. Besides, you’re too involved as it is,
Suzanne.”

“I’m involved because the murder happened
here
!”

Doogie held his hands out flat, in a placating gesture. “I understand that, Suzanne.
But I can’t spill the beans on everything. I’m the duly elected sheriff. As such,
I have to—”

“Yeah, yeah, spare me the reelection speech. Seeing as how you’ve already been reelected.”

“I’m just saying,” said Doogie.

Suzanne thought for a minute. “Would you like a piece of cake?”

“Cake?” A light sparked in Doogie’s eyes. “Sure.” He held up a big paw. “No strings
attached though, right?”

“No strings attached,” said Suzanne. She went out to the café, cut a double slice
of gingerbread cake, placed it on a dinner plate, and got a fork and napkin. Then
she carried it all back in and handed it to Doogie.

“This is mighty nice of you,” said Doogie, digging in. “I didn’t get much lunch.”

“Mmm,” said Suzanne. Leaning over slightly, she picked up a copy of
The Wind in the Willows
and held it loosely in her hand. “You’ll never guess who stopped in here today.”

Doogie chewed thoughtfully. “Oh?”

“Elise Steiner,” said Suzanne.

Doogie stopped chewing. “What the Sam Hill did she want?”

“She wanted me to keep her in the loop concerning the investigation.”

Doogie’s eyes bugged out. “She what?”

Suzanne almost smiled at Doogie’s startled response. “Elise Steiner seems to think
her husband is your prime suspect. As you can imagine, she’s scared that you’re going
to drag him off to jail and beat him senseless with a rubber hose.”

“He ain’t my prime suspect,” said Doogie.

“Really,” said Suzanne. “Then who is?”

Doogie shifted his khaki bulk in the chair. “Are you kidding me, Suzanne?”

“No, I’m not.”

Doogie looked suddenly nervous. “Heck, Suzanne, we got so many suspects right now,
they’re piling up like cordwood!”

B
Y
seven o’clock that night, Petra’s weekly Stitch and Bitch meeting was in full swing.
The knitters, quilters, and crocheters, twelve strong tonight, were hunkered down
in the cozy confines of the Knitting Nest.

With its array of fine yarns, knitting needles, embroidery threads, and stacks of
jelly rolls and quilt squares, this was a home away from home for the devoted group,
which had been gathering here week after week, rain or shine, summer or winter.

But tonight, instead of sitting around the room in overstuffed chairs, with needles
clacking and gentle voices murmuring, the atmosphere was one of excitement.

A shipment of luxe Berroco Nanuk yarn, one of the most popular yarns to hit the needle-arts
scene in ages, had just arrived. Sixty-seven percent wool and thirty-three percent
nylon, this yarn lived up to its marketing and promotion hype and truly “begged to
be touched.”

Petra, wearing blue jeans and a loose-fitting cowl-neck sweater and her short, no-nonsense
hair pulled back with clips, was totally in her element. She dug into the newly arrived
box of yarn and passed the super-soft skeins around to her group as if each mound
of yarn were a precious newborn puppy.

“Okay, you fiber freaks,” said Petra. “What do you think?”

“It feels like a cloud,” said Toby Baines.

“Almost as soft as alpaca,” said Letitia Sprague, who
actually raised sheep and alpacas on her farm outside of town.

“Just like a whisper or a gentle caress,” said Petra. “And can you believe these scrumptious
colors?”

There was narwhal, a delicious light milk-chocolate brown; caribou, an attractive
mix of tan and brown; sila, a soft shade of brushed gray that appeared to lighten
or darken, depending on the light; and polaris, a richly hued light lavender.

“And my favorite,” said Petra, holding up a skein in rich, vibrant red. “Claus. I’m
going to use this to knit an afghan for Donny. To help brighten his room.” Petra’s
husband, Donny, currently resided at the Center City Nursing Home in the memory-care
section. Unfortunately, his Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where he didn’t
seem to recognize Petra anymore. But that cruel twist of fate had never put a dent
or a divot in Petra’s devotion. She would sit with Donny for hours on end, reading
poems by Walt Whitman, bringing him brownies and snickerdoodles, making sure he had
enough warm blankets and fresh glasses of water. They’d watch TV together, mostly
game shows or talent shows, and Petra would reach over and hold his hand.

Did any of this make a difference to Donny’s overall health? Petra thought so. She
thought it made him calmer and happier. And if Donny didn’t realize that it was his
devoted wife who sat there right next to him—well, yes, that fact was hard to deal
with. But Petra had prayed hard and had finally arrived at a certain peace.

“Petra,” said Dede Meyer, not looking up from the shawl she was knitting, “what’s
going on with the murder investigation?”

The atmosphere in the room was suddenly electric. Needles paused, eyes darted, shoulders
tensed.

“Sheriff Doogie is doing his best,” said Petra with a slightly clenched jaw. “He’s
pretty much been in and out of here all day.”

“But are there any suspects?” asked Dede. At this, all the women seemed to lean in
closer, the better to hear.

“I’m not…” began Petra, looking flustered and suddenly ready to cry. Then she glanced
up and saw Suzanne in the doorway. “Suzanne!” she exclaimed, hugely relieved at her
friend’s sudden appearance.

“Just checking on things,” said Suzanne.

“Good for you,” said Petra, locking eyes with her.

But Dede was not to be put off or dissuaded. “We were just asking Petra about the
Busacker murder,” she said. “We’re all kind of wondering…”

“We’re all wondering about that, too,” said Suzanne, cutting in smoothly. “And I guess
we just have to hope that our law-enforcement officials are on their toes and doing
their jobs.”

“Are they?” asked Letitia. She was knitting something that, to Suzanne, looked to
all the world like a big bug cocoon.

“They seem to be,” said Suzanne. “But, please ladies, enough about cold-blooded crimes.
I just wanted to pop in and give a big hello, then get back to the task of preparing
tea and some tasty snacks for you.”

The prospect of tea and snacks seemed to dispel any more questions about Busacker’s
murder, and the group breathed a collective sigh.

“Are you going to join us tonight?” asked Toby.

“Sure wish I could,” said Suzanne, “but the closest I’ve ever come to knitting is
wrapping one of Petra’s shawls around me on a chilly night. You guys are the ones
with talent.”

“We could teach you,” piped up one of the women. She smiled from behind a pile of
multicolored yarn that was attached to the sweater she was working on. Her fingers
and needles flew so fast that Suzanne could barely see them.

“I’m sure you’re all the best teachers in the world,” said Suzanne. “No doubt about
that. And knitting is still on my bucket list. One of these days I’ll learn.”

That produced a flurry of
I’ll teach you
s and
There’s no time like the present
s as Suzanne backed out of the room.

Whew
, she thought. Close call. Especially when it came to dishing about Busacker’s murder.
But of course they’d want to talk about that. Everybody in town was gossiping about
poor Ben Busacker losing his head. The whole ball of wax would probably be splashed
across the front page of tomorrow’s
Bugle.

Sighing, Suzanne hustled into the kitchen to prepare the evening’s snack for the group.

She put a kettle of water on the stove, then opened the industrial cooler and pulled
out a selection of cheeses. A creamy goat cheese, a stout cheddar, and an always-reliable
Swiss. She sliced the cheeses on a cutting board and arranged them on a bright blue
ceramic platter. Toni had painted it at one of those paint-your-own-dish places over
in Jessup. She’d started out painting bluebirds, then halfway through had pooped out
and switched to fish. So kind of a reverse-evolutionary-cycle design.

Suzanne added rows of sliced green apples and put piles of almonds, cashews, and pecans
in all four corners. Two crusty French baguettes were also sliced and went into wicker
baskets.

When the tea kettle whistled softly, she made two pots of tea, a honey vanilla variety
and a strong black Keemun. As the delicious aromas mingled and drifted through the
kitchen, Suzanne breathed deeply, feeling herself relax. Teapot aromatherapy, she
decided. You could always count on the soothing effects of tea.

Suzanne grabbed a dozen small blue-and-white Chinese teacups without handles, as well
as paper napkins, milk, sugar, and utensils, and set everything on a silver serving
tray. In two trips, she’d carried everything to the Knitting Nest.

She was met with a bevy of
ooh
s and
aah
s and
thank
you
s from all the women.

“This is so kind of you,” said Toby, reaching for a chunk of baguette and a cube of
Swiss cheese.

“My pleasure,” said Suzanne. “Enjoy.”

The women nodded happily as they dug into their snacks.

Suzanne’s next stop was the Book Nook. Flipping on the lights, she walked to the shelf
where she kept her needlecraft books. She grabbed a stack of books on knitting, crocheting,
quilting, as well as three general crafting books, and carried them to the counter.
Then she grabbed a pink-and-peach afghan that Petra had knit, spread it carefully
on the small round table at the front of the shop, and arranged the books on top of
it, piling them up, then standing a couple of books upright. A few skeins of yarn
and a stack of quilt squares completed her arrangement. Oh, and she couldn’t forget.
She dashed into her office and grabbed a new book on cross-stitching that had just
arrived and added it to her display.

Suzanne knew that, sooner or later, the knitters and stitchers would get up to stretch
their legs. And when they did, they’d wander into the Book Nook to snoop around and
see what was new. It never failed. Suzanne typically sold five to ten books this way.
All in all, a nice little add-on that helped boost the Cackleberry Club’s profitability.

T
HREE
hours later, the Stitch and Bitch was over. Platters were bare, with nary a crumble
of bread left over. Half-finished knitting projects were stuffed into tote bags. And
all of the ladies had departed, with Petra waving her good-byes, too, then darting
out the front door directly on the heels of her knitters.

Suzanne, weary from her long day, was still hunched at her desk, working her way through
a stack of paperwork. Luckily, there hadn’t been any nasty surprises. No past-due
invoices, no cut-off notices from vendors, no phony-baloney bills that had mistakenly
been paid. Fact was, the Cackleberry Club was chugging along fairly well, even in
the midst of this “Great Recession,” something the economists said had ended a couple
of years ago. Thanks to the good folks of Kindred and everyone else who ambled down
Highway 65, they’d managed to eke out a small profit when many other small businesses
weren’t even able to cover their operating expenses.

Just as Suzanne was contemplating her good luck, she heard a faint jingle at the back
door of the Cackleberry Club.

She sat up, suddenly alert.

What was that? Someone
tippy-tapping
at the door? Trying to get in?

Even from where she sat in her office, she felt a cool breeze waft across her ankles.

She set down her pen and listened carefully.

Someone
was
in. Could it be Petra who was pussyfooting around so quietly? No, it couldn’t be.
Petra, the perpetual hard charger, had never moved quietly a day in her life.