Stake & Eggs (3 page)

“Okay now,” she said, keeping her voice calm and even, just in case he could hear
her. “I’m going to ease you over…” Suzanne knelt down in the snow, slipped her arms
around the shoulders of his shiny blue-and-yellow snowmobile suit, and gave a gentle
push.

Ben rolled over fairly easily. Except for one weird thing. Only his torso and legs
seemed to roll.

Huh?

Suzanne scrabbled backward in the snow as new flakes continued to rush down from the
sky. She was staring. Gaping. Trying to figure out what was wrong with this picture.
And suddenly realized there was just a mangled bloody stump where Ben’s head should
have been.

“Uhhh!” she cried out, frantically backpedaling away from him.

“He’s…he’s…” she babbled. “Is that what I stumbled…?” But her mind refused to go there.
Her reluctant, darting eyes took in Ben’s limp body, while her mind chose to retreat
to a safer place for now. Suzanne clambered to her feet so rapidly her knees popped,
then she leaned against a birch tree and vomited softly. Thought about Ben. Headless.
Vomited again.

It was only when, limp and sick, she sank to her knees, hot tears streaming down her
face and quickly turning cold on her skin, that Suzanne saw Ben’s head lying in the
snow. His eyes were squeezed shut, a red knit stocking cap still covering his dark
hair.

Like Lot’s wife, struck by the angels of deliverance and turned to stone, Suzanne
froze and stared straight ahead. And that’s when she caught the faint glint of wire
stretched tautly between two wooden stakes.

T
HEY
called Sheriff Roy Doogie, all of them jabbering into the phone at the same time,
shouting for help and probably scaring the poop out of the dispatch operator at the
Law Enforcement Center.

“We’ve got eight calls ahead of you,” the dispatcher told Suzanne. The dispatcher
was a woman named Molly Grabowski, who was also the county’s go-to foster mom when
it came to providing emergency shelter for kids in need. “Plus there’s a jackknifed
semi trailer out on Highway Eighteen,” Molly continued, “as well as a stuck school
bus and a smoldering tire fire behind Cragun’s Auto.”

“We’ve got a dead guy here,” Suzanne blurted out. “My dead guy trumps your jackknife
and everything else.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Seriously?” said Molly.

“Ben Busacker pitched off his snowmobile,” Suzanne explained. “Behind the Cackleberry
Club.”

“And lost his head,” Toni muttered, her voice constricted, her eyes wide with fright.

“What was that?” Molly asked. “I didn’t quite…”

“Never mind,” said Suzanne. “Just send Sheriff Doogie over here as fast as you possibly
can.” She hung up the phone and gazed into the stunned faces of Toni and Petra. Before
they could say anything more, she sat down hard in a chair and touched a hand to her
stomach. She still couldn’t wrap her mind around what she’d seen out there in the
blizzard.

“Honey, are you okay?” asked Petra. Concern lit her face as she bent down toward Suzanne.

“No,” said Suzanne. “Not really.”

“It must have been an awful sight,” said Petra. “I can’t imagine. Can I get you some
tea or anything? Water?”

“No, thanks,” said Suzanne.

Petra straightened up and exchanged glances with Tony. They both knew that Suzanne
tended to take on too much. And took it all to heart. On the other hand, they also
knew what a tough cookie their friend was.

“Now what?” asked Petra.

“Well,” said Suzanne slowly, “we can’t exactly pack up and go home.”

“I don’t know if this is appropriate right now,” said Toni, “given the…” She crooked
her head toward the back door. “You know, what happened out there and all. But we’ve
got corn chowder and blueberry muffins left over,” she added slowly. “Maybe we could
warm everything up and wait for Doogie in the Knitting Nest?”

“Cozy in,” suggested Petra.

Suzanne cocked an eye at them. After what she’d just seen, cozy didn’t quite cut it.

Petra looked suddenly sheepish. “I mean…as cozy as we can get with a dead guy lying
out back?”

Toni peered nervously out the window. “A dead guy who’s probably turning into a popsicle
even as we speak.”

“Let’s do that,” said Suzanne, making a decision. “Let’s stay calm and hunker down
in the Knitting Nest.” The Knitting Nest was a small shop adjacent to the Cackleberry
Club café, right next to their Book Nook. The Knitting Nest was best because it boasted
comfy rump-sprung chairs and a space heater. It was also cheery, with hundreds of
skeins of gorgeous yarn tucked into virtually every corner, plus Petra’s shawls, wraps,
and sweaters displayed on the walls.

“I’ll heat the soup,” Petra offered, grabbing a sauce pan from her overhead rack.

“Thank you,” said Suzanne. She suddenly thought of her
dogs, Baxter and Scruff, who’d need tending to. She’d have to make a quick call to
her neighbor, Mrs. Wendorf, and ask her to feed her pups and let them out into the
backyard.

Toni remained glued to the kitchen window, eyes darting nervously. “You don’t suppose…”

“Don’t say it,” said Suzanne. She knew how Toni’s mind worked.

“Don’t say what?” asked Petra.

“Coyotes,” Toni said in a stage whisper.

“There,” said Suzanne, throwing up her hands, “she said it.”

“What if they come sneaking around?” asked Toni. “The little pests have been all over
the place this winter.”

“They won’t,” Suzanne promised.
They better not.

But Toni had a one-track mind and a fascination with the macabre. “I heard this awful
story about an old lady who died all by herself at home. And her…”

“Not the cat story!” Petra shrieked.

“Yes!” said Toni. “The cat! And it…”

“Never happened,” Suzanne interrupted. “That tale’s an urban myth. Just like the choking
Doberman story.” But deep inside, she couldn’t help but give a little shudder.

T
HEY
were halfway through their fairly somber meal of chowder and muffins when they heard
the
clump clump clump
of heavy boots on the front porch.

“Doogie,” said Toni, starting to rise in her chair.

“Took his own sweet time,” said Petra.

Suzanne glanced at her watch, a silver-and-gold Timex that Walter had given her for
their ninth anniversary. Unfortunately, poor Walter had never made it to their tenth
anniversary.

“Suzanne?” Doogie was stumping around in the café now, kicking clods of snow from
his boots, generally making a slushy mess.

The three women came flying out to greet him.

“Thank goodness, you’re here,” said Suzanne.

Sheriff Roy Doogie’s face and ears were red as pickled beets. He wore his modified
Smoky Bear hat and an oversized dark green snorkel parka over his khaki sheriff’s
uniform. He was a big man, broad across the shoulders, beamy in the hips. But right
now, his hooded gray eyes darted back and forth. Sheriff Doogie was on full alert.

“Where is he?” asked Doogie.

Toni hooked a thumb. “Out back.”

“And you’re sure it’s Ben?” asked Doogie.

“Ninety-nine percent sure,” said Suzanne.

“And you’re sure he’s dead.”

“If he’s not dead, it would be a miracle,” said Suzanne.

“Okay,” said Doogie. He blew breath onto his hands to warm them, then said, “I’ll
go have a look.”

“Come through the kitchen,” said Suzanne, gesturing. “It’s easier going.”

“You want us to come out, too?” asked Toni. She’d gotten over her initial shock and
was suddenly all jacked up about viewing the body.

“You stay put,” said Doogie. “This is not a paramilitary operation.” He cocked a rheumy
eye at Suzanne. “You, too.”

“What am I?” said Petra. “Chopped liver?” They had all three followed Doogie into
the kitchen. But Doogie threw them a warning glance, then slipped out the back door.

“He didn’t warn you, because you’re the non-snoopy one,” Suzanne told Petra. “The
one least likely to get involved.”

Petra frowned. “When a murder happens at the Cackleberry Club, we’re
all
involved.”

“Good point,” said Suzanne. She nibbled at her lower lip. And realized that this was
really very bad timing. Kindred’s big Fire & Ice Festival was due to kick off in two
days’ time. This nasty little incident could definitely put a crimp in things. And
she’d already spent time, money, and beaucoup energy on a couple of events the Cackleberry
Club was slated to host, like Thursday’s Crystal Tea and Sunday’s Winter Blaze.

Still, a man had
died
out there. That certainly trumped a lot of other concerns. Suzanne suddenly wondered
about Ben’s wife, Claudia. How was she likely to handle this dreadful news? Even snooty
people had feelings, Suzanne thought, hard as that could be to believe sometimes.

Doogie stomped in from the cold some five minutes later. “Yup, he’s dead as a doornail,”
he declared, clapping his hands together.

“You saw the wire?” Suzanne asked.

“Yup, I did. Even in that snow-washed world. Amazing what the eye can sort out when
it needs to.” Breaking out of his parka, Doogie lifted his big head and gave a suspicious
sniff, as if he might be sourcing a leftover sticky bun or cinnamon donut.

Petra, who was leaning against the big industrial stove, arms folded across her ample
chest, said, “So that’s your expert opinion?”

“It is,” said Doogie, pulling off his suede mitts, ubiquitously known as choppers.
“Since I don’t know of any transplant operation that could remedy his type of situation.”

“That bad, huh?” said Toni.

Doogie nodded.

“Maybe I should go out and take a look,” said Toni.

“Don’t!” Suzanne, Petra, and Doogie all cried together.

“It looks to me like there might be other snowmobile tracks out there,” said Doogie,
“but it’s awful hard to tell for sure. The snow’s coming down hard and the wind is
ripping like crazy, so everything’s drifted.” He pulled out his cell phone and stared
at Suzanne. “You guys got any leftover sweet rolls or donuts? I ain’t had dinner yet
and it’s gonna be a long night.”

“Out in the café,” said Suzanne.

Doogie nodded as he punched in numbers. “Got a couple of calls to make. You ladies
give me a little privacy, then I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

*  *  *

D
OOGIE
sat at the counter munching a donut while the three women clustered around him.

“You called for an ambulance?” Suzanne asked.

Doogie brushed a spray of colored sprinkles from the front of his shirt. “And the
coroner. No big hurry, though.” He drained his coffee cup noisily, then said, “Got
any more? Hot?”

Petra grabbed a pot from the burner. “It’s mostly dregs.”

“Works for me,” said Doogie.

“I can make fresh,” said Petra. “We might be here awhile.”

“You want another donut, too?” Suzanne asked.

“Bring it on,” said Doogie.

Suzanne placed a glazed jelly donut on a clean plate and slid it across the counter
to Doogie. He reached out with a chubby finger and towed it toward him. “Thanks,”
he said. He took a bite, swallowed, seemed to be ruminating about something, and then
said, “You say Busacker was coming out here for a meeting?”

Suzanne nodded. “To talk about the Fire and Ice finale. We’re hosting the big party
this year.”

“Did you see or hear anybody out back?” Doogie asked. He pulled a pencil and small
spiral notebook out of his shirt pocket.

“Maybe,” Suzanne said slowly. “Maybe there might have been two snowmobiles.”

“She’s right,” said Petra. “We heard one buzzing around a few minutes before the other
one crashed.”

“So you heard two different machines?” asked Doogie. He was taking notes now.

“I guess so,” said Suzanne. “No, I’m pretty sure we did.” She thought about the implication
of that, then asked, “Does that mean somebody else was sneaking around out back, stretching
that wire?”

“The killer was scoping us out?” said Petra. She looked deeply unsettled.

“Whoever stretched that wire had to know Ben was coming here,” said Doogie. “For your
meeting.”

“Who would know that?” asked Toni.

Suzanne thought for a minute. “Everybody. It was written up in the
Bugle
.”

Doogie stopped jotting notes and looked up. “Huh?”

“Courtesy of Gene Gandle,” said Suzanne, “our intrepid local reporter. When it comes
to meetings and civic activities, he writes down every little nit and nat and sticks
it in the newspaper.” Gene Gandle wore several hats at the
Bugle
. He covered hard news, crop reports, high school basketball, hog prices, and sold
advertising space. Not necessarily in that order.

“Conscientious son of a gun, ain’t he?” said Doogie.

“I think Gene’s still hoping to win a Pulitzer,” said Suzanne.

“That’s gonna be a cold day in—” Toni began.

“Kindred,” finished Petra.

“The thing is,” said Suzanne, “Ben was coming along a trail that lots of folks use.
They come hot-dogging along Highway Sixty-Five on the shoulder. Then, when the ditch
starts to get too steep, they cut behind the Journey’s End Church and zip through
my woods.”

“So everybody knows about the path…the trail,” said Doogie. He scratched his nose
with the eraser end of his pencil.

“Most snowmobilers do, anyway,” said Suzanne. “Especially if they’re coming here.”

“Can’t you just question all the people who own snowmobiles?” asked Toni. “Seems like
that would be a likely place to start.”

Doogie let loose a sharp bark. “Hah! That would be half the people in Logan County.”

Petra sighed. “All those people making a racket. It’s practically criminal.”

*  *  *

F
IFTEEN
minutes later, there was a new racket at the front door. And, seconds later, Dr.
Sam Hazelet came rushing in.

Surprise bloomed on Suzanne’s face as she jumped up from her stool at the counter.
“What are
you
doing here?” Sam was tall, early forties, good looking, with tousled brown hair and
blue eyes. Of course he looked adorable with a navy North Face parka pulled over his
blue medical coat.