Stake & Eggs (14 page)

Okay, then, maybe one of the knitters had forgotten something. A skein of yarn they’d
purchased? A knitting bag? A wallet?

Suzanne listened harder.

Now—nothing. No sounds at all.

How odd.

But somebody had opened the door, hadn’t they? Or was she just jumpy and spooked because
of the Ben Busacker incident?

Suzanne suddenly couldn’t stand the tension. The place was way too quiet now and feeling
strangely eerie. No way could she sit here and try to work—she had to investigate!

Quietly, like a mouse trying to steal its way into a larder, she slid her chair back
and stood up.

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she felt a serious twitch of
nerves.

Ben Busacker had been murdered out in the woods just two days ago. That hard fact
scared Suzanne, worried her
enormously. Had the cold-blooded killer come back for a return engagement?

Should I dial 911? Try to get Doogie over here? Or Sam?

A footstep sounded.

Oh man. No time to call for help now! Someone is definitely in my kitchen!

Heart beating wildly inside her chest, Suzanne moved across the darkened café slowly
and stealthily, like a jungle cat stalking its prey.

Pausing at the swinging door, knowing someone was on the other side, Suzanne glanced
about frantically, searching for a weapon.

The butcher knives were all lined up nice and neat in the kitchen. So what could she
use to defend herself? Or launch an all-out assault if need be?

Slowly, quietly, Suzanne reached an arm overhead and grabbed a yellow ceramic chicken
from a shelf crowded with chickens. This was it, she decided. She’d have to make her
stand with a paint-and-plaster chicken statue! And clobber whoever came walking through
that door.

The door creaked on its hinges and suddenly swung open!

Suzanne lunged forward, ready to bring the chicken crashing down upon the intruder’s
skull. And checked herself midstrike.

A boy stood in the doorway. A teenager dressed all in black. Black jacket, black pants,
black boots. Like a youthful ninja. He had short, jet-black hair, pale skin, and worried
eyes that glowed with tones of yellow in the faint light that spilled over from the
Book Nook.

“What. The. Heck!” Suzanne blurted out. Her fear was suddenly mingled with anger.
Who was this dumb kid who’d just broken into her place and scared her half to death?

She dropped her eyes and glanced at his hands, almost as an afterthought. Thank goodness
he wasn’t carrying a
weapon! At least nothing she could see. So, what did this kid want? What on earth
was he
doing
here?

Suzanne’s left hand reached out and frantically batted the light switch. Warm yellow
light flooded the café and thankfully calmed her racing heart just a bit.

The kid stared at the chicken still clutched in Suzanne’s hands. “Oh jeez, you were
gonna smack me with that?” he cried out. “You coulda killed me!”

“You got that right!” said Suzanne. She used her stern voice, the one she’d used when
she used to teach at Kindred Middle School. The one that could usually intimidate
youthful offenders.

She motioned toward a nearby table, brandishing the chicken as one might a gun. “Sit
down. You’ve got some serious explaining to do.”

The kid shuffled over to a chair and sat down, never taking his eyes off her.

“Who are you?” she demanded. First things first.

“Umm…Colby,” he said, sputtering, stumbling over his words.

“Colby?” said Suzanne, drilling him. “Colby what?”

His eyes shifted across and around the room, then back to her. His hands fidgeted
and twisted together like a pretzel, and his feet were positioned awkwardly, as if
he’d been caught midstep. Which, of course, he had been.

“How’d you get in here?” asked Suzanne.

Colby gave an offhand shrug.

“Look, buster,” said Suzanne, “we can do this the hard way or the easy way.”

“What’s the hard way?” asked Colby, sounding petulant.

“I call the sheriff.”

An uptick of one side of his mouth. “You wouldn’t do that.”

Suzanne took a step toward the wall phone. “Watch me.”

Colby’s bravado seemed to falter. “And the easy way?”

“You tell me the honest truth, and I don’t wring your scrawny neck.”

Colby thought for a long minute. Then he said, “I got a key.”

Suzanne was stunned. “You got in with a key? No way. I don’t believe you.” There were
only four keys to the Cackleberry Club, and she knew exactly who had each of them.

Colby dug a grubby hand into his voluminous jacket pocket and pulled out a key. With
just a hint of a smile, he dangled a small brass key in front of her eyes.

Suzanne reached out and snatched the key from his hand. “Where’d you get this?” she
demanded. She glanced at it, saw the key was attached to a familiar looking fob. “Oh
crap. You got this from Joey.” Her voice was like ice now. “Did Joey give this to
you?” Under her breath she muttered, “That little weasel.”

Colby seemed to hunch up as if he was chilled to the bone. “We met a couple of days
ago, yeah. We’re kind of like friends now.”

“Excuse me,” said Suzanne, “but
why
did Joey give you this key? To the best of my knowledge, I don’t believe you had
a job interview scheduled for nine o’clock this evening.”

Colby’s dark eyes burned into her. “I was hungry.”

Suzanne was taken aback. “So why sneak in here? Why not just go home?”

Colby turned his head, as if to deflect her question.

Suzanne suddenly understood. It hit her like a thunderclap. “Because you don’t have
a home,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re a runaway, aren’t you?”

The kid didn’t answer. He just sat still as a statue. The only thing that gave him
away were his eyes. They were wild, slightly haunted eyes that gave him the look of
a caged animal, restless and scared. Or a wild animal caught in a leg trap.

Suzanne decided to try another angle. “Where’s your family?”

“Don’t have one,” Colby replied with a toss of his head.

Suzanne sucked in a small breath. This revelation—if
true—pretty much floored her. “There has to someone we could call,” she pressed. “Your
mom or dad? Brother or sister?”

“No way,” said Colby.

Suzanne tried again. “A friend?”

Colby pursed his lips.

“Where have you run away from?” she asked.

“None of your business,” Colby said sharply.

“You’re a tough guy, aren’t you?”

“You better believe it.”

More than anything, Suzanne wanted to keep this conversation rolling, the better to
draw out information. So she softened her voice and said, “You say you met Joey a
couple of days ago. Does that mean you’ve been staying at his house?”

Colby shook his head.

“Then where have you been sleeping? You do sleep, don’t you?”

Colby looked suddenly uneasy. After a pause, he said, “I been spending nights in that
big barn across the way.” He saw the look of surprise on her face, and added, “But
it’s okay. There are two horses there to keep me company.”

“My horses,” said Suzanne, smiling a little. “Well, actually a horse and a mule. Mocha
and Grommet.”

“They’re yours?” Now Colby seemed surprised.

Suzanne wasn’t about to tell him she owned that particular property, and she sure
wasn’t going to let this kid crawl back there and sack out in the hayloft again. An
overnight in the Cackleberry Club wasn’t an option, either.

“Listen,” said Suzanne, “it’s getting late, and we need to find you a place to sleep.”

“I’ll be okay,” said Colby.

“Doubtful,” said Suzanne.

“I said I’ll
be
okay.”

“Look, kid,” said Suzanne, “I hate to do this, but you’re probably gonna have to spend
the night at the Law Enforcement Center here in town.”

“You’re gonna turn me in to the cops? Send me to jail?” Colby’s eyes blazed with outrage.
“You said you wouldn’t do that if I played straight with you!”

“Take it easy,” said Suzanne. “I’m not having you arrested. I just want you to have
a safe, warm place to spend the night. Tomorrow, you can sit down and talk to the
social services people. They can help you sort things out.”

“Why can’t I sleep here?” asked Colby. “I won’t hurt anything.”

Suzanne’s heart softened. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But it’s just not going to happen.”
She stood up. “I’m going to call my friend, who’s the sheriff, then I’ll drive you
over there.”

Colby flashed a sullen glance and crossed his arms. He seemed both angry and despondent.

“Tell you what,” said Suzanne. “How about I make you a nice turkey sandwich first?
And warm up a piece of apple pie. Then we’ll drive you over there. Deal?”

Colby sighed deeply. “I guess.”

S
UZANNE
pulled off her coat and tossed it on the hall table, too tired to even hang it up.
Her scarf, hat, and mittens were added to the pile. Dropping Colby at the Law Enforcement
Center hadn’t exactly been a piece of cake. The kid was angry and mistrustful of authority,
and Doogie’s normal blustering hadn’t been much help. But the whole thing was over
and done with and, hopefully, no longer her problem. She had high hopes that Molly
Grabowski, the dispatcher, or Sandy Preston, a grandmotherly woman who worked in social
services, would be able to connect with Colby and somehow coax him back to his family.

Baxter stood at the edge of the living room wagging his tail, looking sleepy but happy
to see her home.

“Sorry I’m so late, sweetie. Tough night.”

Baxter padded over to Suzanne and stuck his muzzle in her hand, welcoming her with
hot doggy breath and a wet tongue.

“I love you, too, Bax,” she said, as the phone rang. “Oh man, I hope this is just
a later-than-usual telemarketer.” She sighed. “And not bad news.”

“Is he with you?” asked Doogie, the moment she picked up.

Suzanne was momentarily confused. “Is who with me?” Was Doogie talking about Sam?
Her heart lurched. Had there been some kind of accident?

“The kid,” said Doogie. “Colby. Is he with you?”

“No,” said Suzanne, frowning. “He’s with you.”

The line went silent.

“Doogie, what?” said Suzanne. “What happened?”

“Aw, I feel like a colossal doofus,” said the sheriff. “That kid gave us the slip.”

“What?”

“The thing is,” said Doogie, sounding sheepish, “we turned our backs for like two
seconds, and suddenly he was gone. Just like that. Blew out the door like some kind
of junior Houdini.”

“Rats,” said Suzanne. She wondered if Colby had made his way back to the barn. Or
if he was trudging across the frozen soybean field right about now, hoping to burrow
under the straw and stay warm.

She shook her head to dispel that thought.
Don’t think of him being out in the cold
, she admonished herself. It was his choice. Then her heart softened, and she thought,
How can I not worry? He’s just a kid.

“I’m sorry, Suzanne,” said Doogie. “At least our intentions were good.”

“But it pretty much shoots the whole plan,” said Suzanne. “I was hoping somebody over
there might be able to gain his trust and worm a little information out of him. Send
him back home to his parents.”

“We’ll find him,” said Doogie. “I’ll put the word out to all my deputies first thing
tomorrow.”

“I guess,” said Suzanne, knowing it was the best they could hope for. What was that
old saying? You can’t close
the barn door after the horse is out? She drew breath, and said, “Listen, after we
talked this afternoon, I was wondering if anything new turned up? Any clues on the
Busacker case?”

“I’m bringing Ducovny in for questioning tomorrow,” said Doogie.

“Why on earth?” Suzanne sputtered. “You can’t do that. The man’s innocent!”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Doogie. “You’ve got me pretty convinced of that. Unfortunately,
a whole bunch of people think otherwise.”

“You’ve got to keep digging,” said Suzanne. “Ducovny’s not your man!”

“It’s tough when Mayor Mobley and the fancy bank man, Ed Rapson, think otherwise,”
said Doogie. “They think he’s guilty as sin.”

“And after tomorrow,” said Suzanne, “when Gene Gandle’s story comes out in the
Bugle
, the whole town will probably think Charlie Steiner is guilty, too!”

“They probably will,” sighed Doogie.

“What a mess,” said Suzanne.

S
UZANNE
stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom penciling a little more definition into
her brows. It was Thursday, 7:30
A.M.
, and the morning of Ben Busacker’s funeral.

She’d smudged on a little taupe eye shadow to her normally au naturel face, then wiped
it off with a Kleenex. Too raccoony. Too…Kardashian. So, what else? Maybe just a dab
of pale peach lipstick. After all, she was going to a funeral, not Hoobly’s Roadhouse.

Blinking at herself in the mirror and catching a glimpse of her somber expression,
Suzanne thought,
This is the real deal, isn’t it? Yup. Funeral time.

Funerals left no wiggle room. Suzanne had been to enough services over the years to
comprehend this hard-and-fast truth. When that gunmetal gray casket came rolling down
the center aisle, there was no avoiding or denying the reality of the situation. It
was a visceral, gut-wrenching confirmation that a friend or loved one was dead and
gone. Forever.

Except in this case, Busacker the banker wasn’t exactly viewed as a “loved one” by
the folks in Kindred. Coldly efficient banking practices didn’t exactly win friends
and influence people. Especially when it meant jacking banking fees sky high, or ripping
people’s homes out from under them.

As Suzanne kept an eye on the clock—she had to leave in about ten minutes—her unhappy
thoughts strayed to
Claudia, Ben’s wife. The poor woman, how was she faring? Was Claudia getting any rest,
any respite from her nightmare? Suzanne decided she’d try to say a few comforting
words to Claudia after the service. It seemed only fitting.