Authors: Laura Childs
With a burp of oil and a sizzle of grease, Junior’s car cooker rattled into the parking
lot and stopped right next to Suzanne’s rented snowmobile. Right on his tail was Sam’s
BMW.
While Junior got out and fussed under his hood, Sam
made a beeline for Suzanne. They kissed each other in greeting.
“Need any help?” he asked her. Before she could answer, he looked around and said,
“Gee, everything looks terrific.”
“I think we actually have it under control,” said Suzanne. She’d changed into jeans,
a black faux-fur jacket, and her shiny black boots.
“Excellent,” said Sam. “I’m not exactly a light-your-briquettes kind of guy.”
You sure enough warm my briquettes
, thought Suzanne.
“Hey,” said Sam. “Got something for you.” He reached into the pocket of his shearling
jacket and handed her a dark blue leather box etched in gold.
A jewelry box
, thought Suzanne.
Oh my. Oh dear.
“Go ahead, open it.”
Suzanne took a deep breath and opened the little box. There, nested on a pillow of
blue velvet, was a tiny Fabergé egg pendant. It was very wintry looking, all gold
and perfect and studded with hundreds of tiny white crystals.
“Oh my goodness!” said a shocked Suzanne. “It’s beautiful! But…what is this for? What
did I do to deserve this?” She was fumbling her words, a little bit embarrassed, but
secretly pleased, too.
Sam leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “It’s our three-month anniversary.”
“We’re counting months?”
“I am.”
Suzanne smiled to herself. Any man who counted weeks or months in a relationship was
a good man. A keeper. She held up the pendant again, thrilled at how the light caught
the crystals and made them sparkle like fire. “And it’s real Fabergé?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly handcrafted by Carl Fabergé in between making priceless treasures
for Czar Nicholas. But it’s from the Fabergé family, yes.” Sam grinned. “Probably
the brother-in-law.” He chuckled. “Fritz Fabergé.”
Suzanne removed the pendant from its velvet box and hung it around her neck. It gleamed
and sparkled as it settled into the little notch below her throat. “I love it.” And
she truly did. It made her feel warm and safe, as if she were back in college and
had been solemnly asked to wear someone’s fraternity pin.
“I had to order it from a jewelry store in Chicago,” said Sam. He had the pride that
all men have when they’ve put themselves out there and gotten the gift thing right.
“But I don’t have anything for you,” said Suzanne, suddenly worried.
Sam pulled her close. “Oh yes, you do.”
The spell was suddenly broken by Toni stomping across the lot. She stopped, stared
at Sam’s boots, and said, “It takes a real man to wear UGGs.” Then she turned toward
Junior, and screamed, “Junior! Don’t you dare park that ugly clunker there!”
Junior turned to her, palms up, in a gesture of appeasement. “I’m just making final
adjustments
,” he told her. “Besides, I gotta log a few more miles. My ribs aren’t quite cooked
yet. I want them falling-off-the-bone tender.”
Suzanne and Sam strolled over to Junior’s car, where Sam watched Junior peel back
his hood and baste his rack of ribs.
“I’m fascinated by this,” Sam said to Junior. “You came up with this invention all
on your own?”
Junior tapped a grubby index finger against the side of his head. “My brain’s always
whirling away. I’m always on the lookout for the next triumph in engineering.”
“And you’re doing barbecue,” said Sam, staring at the ribs in Junior’s makeshift cooker.
“Baby back ribs,” boasted Junior. “Basted with my own secret sauce.”
“What’s so secret about it?” asked Toni. “You probably threw together a squirt of
ketchup, a little mustard, and maybe a toot of horseradish.”
“You can’t expect me to reveal the
precise
ingredients,”
said Junior, indignantly. “Some big food conglomerate might get wind of it and try
to steal my recipe out from under me.”
Suzanne thought,
Fat chance
, but instead said, “That’s smart thinking, Junior.”
But Sam was still fascinated by Junior’s invention. “So you use a meat thermometer
and everything?”
Junior shrugged. “Naw, I just poke ’em with the dipstick.”
T
HE
mercury was hovering at barely twenty degrees, but the people who thronged outside
the Cackleberry Club didn’t seem to mind. Brats sizzled and popped over hot coals,
hot cider steamed, and the fire cauldrons blazed as the Bogus Creek Bluegrass Boys
cranked out “Wreck of the Old 97.”
“This is fantastic,” said Petra. “We really pulled it off.” She stood next to Suzanne
with one of her hand-knitted angora shawls pulled tightly around her shoulders, watching
the two hundred guests mill and mingle.
“And the volunteers,” said Suzanne. “I can’t believe how many people pitched in to
help.”
“Pitched in and chipped in,” said Petra. “That’s what small towns are all about. Everyone
working together.”
Suzanne didn’t want to bring up the fact that there was a killer stalking this particular
small town, so she didn’t. But the notion burned inside her. For all she knew, the
killer could be here tonight, on this very property once again, smiling and joking,
drinking cider or cocoa, and doing the two-step. As much as one could maneuver the
two-step wearing clunky winter boots.
And still people poured in. Ed Rapson showed up, though Suzanne sincerely wondered
why, with Ham Wick trailing him like a hopeful puppy dog.
Sheriff Doogie and his deputy Eddie Driscoll had staked out a place on the sidelines,
sipping cocoa and watching the festivities with their cool law-enforcement eyes.
Suzanne wondered if they knew something she didn’t. Then decided she had to stop obsessing,
if just for one night. Yes, that was it. She’d give herself a break. Tonight she’d
simply enjoy herself, and tomorrow she’d go back to worrying about the murder and
everything else. Her hand crept inside her jacket, and the tips of her fingers touched
the egg pendant Sam had given her. What a delightful surprise from a man she was fast
falling in love with.
“Dear lord,” Petra murmured, “will you look at that.”
Carmen Copeland had just arrived in her white Mercedes-Benz SLK, and edged the nose
of her car past Junior’s car cooker.
“Come to slum,” said Suzanne. She watched as Carmen got out of her car, gave Junior’s
wreck a disdainful look, and minced toward a group of people. Not only was Carmen
wearing a mink hat to match her full-length mink coat, but when her coat fell open,
it revealed a red and gold spangled wool sweater.
“What on earth is she wearing?” said Petra. “I know it’s probably expensive as all
get-out, but it looks more like the Ice Capades.”
Toni strolled up to them. “Mayor Mobley says he wants to give out the awards in a
few minutes.”
“Fine with me,” said Suzanne. “Maybe after this song? Then he’s clear to take center
stage.”
“More like take over,” said Toni. “But, yeah, I’ll tell him.”
“Tell Junior to move that crappy car of his, too,” said Petra.
“Already did,” said Toni, giving a helpless shrug. “About a zillion times.”
“Suzanne,” said a low voice behind her.
Suzanne turned to find Reed Ducovny standing there and gazing at her.
“Could we have a word?” Ducovny asked.
“Of course,” said Suzanne, slipping away from Petra. She guided Ducovny over to one
of the sparkling pine trees and said, “What’s up?”
“I know it’s January and all,” said Ducovny, “but I sure am getting the cold shoulder
from a lot of people.”
“Oh no,” said Suzanne, feeling awful.
“Seems like people still think I’m a suspect,” said Ducovny. He paused. “Am I?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask,” said Suzanne as diplomatically as she could. “You should
be having this conversation with Sheriff Doogie.”
“Which I’ve tried to do,” said Ducovny. “Countless times. But he ends up doing all
the talking. Asking me about my business with the bank, what I was up to last Monday,
stuff like that.”
“I’m sure Doogie’s just trying to be thorough,” said Suzanne. “I know he’s under tremendous
pressure.”
“So am I,” said Ducovny, kicking snow with his toe. “I don’t think I’ve had a decent
night’s sleep since that awful snowmobile accident out back of your place.”
Not accident
, Suzanne thought for about the twentieth time.
Murder.
“I’m sorry,” said Suzanne, and she was. Sorry that Ducovny was a suspect, sorry that
nothing had been resolved yet, sorry that she’d let herself get dragged into this
awful mess.
“If you can put in a good word for me,” said Ducovny, “I’d sure appreciate it.”
“I’ll certainly try,” said Suzanne, knowing she really couldn’t do that and hating
herself for not being more helpful to him. She watched as Ducovny wandered off, then
focused her attention back on the party. It was in full swing now, with food being
dished out and people really enjoying themselves. She saw Lester Drummond approach
Missy Langston, presumably to ask her to dance. Missy shook her head and pulled away
even as Drummond followed her.
Persistent son of a gun, aren’t you?
Suzanne thought to herself as a loud, high-pitched squeal suddenly burst forth from
the PA system. She glanced at the band and saw that
Mayor Mobley had commandeered a microphone and was posturing grandly.
Ah
, she thought.
Award time.
“May I have your attention, please?” Mayor Mobley’s voice blared out above the noise
of the crowd. When the crowd finally settled down and turned their attention his way,
he said, “First of all, I want to welcome all of you to our Winter Blaze party!” A
loud cheer went up, and Mobley grinned and nodded, as if he’d carried off the entire
evening all on his own. “What a fitting conclusion to our town’s wonderful Fire and
Ice celebration!” There were more cheers and a couple of boos.
That’ll get his dander up, thought Suzanne. Mobley wasn’t a fan of negative opinions.
“My cohorts tell me,” said Mayor Mobley, “that although many of you have come very
close
to finding the treasure medallion, no one has actually plucked it from its hiding
place yet. So you’ve still got a few hours left in which to win the three thousand
dollars in prize money, which our own lovely Carmen Copeland has graciously donated.”
There was more applause, a riff of music from the band, and then Mobley continued.
“Now I know you’re anxious to find out who won our ice-fishing contest and our ice-carving
contest. So I don’t intend to keep you waiting any longer.” He grinned and glanced
around, milking the moment and making people wait even though he said he wouldn’t.
Finally Mobley announced, his voice sounding almost jubilant, “With a prize-winning
walleye that weighed in at an amazing twelve pounds and four ounces, our first-place
winner is Mr. Charlie Steiner!”
There was a spatter of reserved applause as Charlie Steiner stumped up to Mayor Mobley
to receive his hundred-dollar check.
I didn’t even know Steiner was here tonight
, Suzanne thought to herself. Very interesting. She slipped through the crowd, searching
for Sam, as Mobley plowed ahead, announcing the second- and third-place winners.
This time there was lots more applause, but still no Sam in sight.
Where are you?
Suzanne wondered as Toni suddenly grabbed her sleeve.
“This is it,” Toni murmured.
“And now for the ice-carving contest,” said Mayor Mobley, his voice booming out. “We
had a record two-dozen entries this year! And some of the sculptures were real doozies!”
He glanced out at George Draper, and said, “I never saw an ice sarcophagus before
today!” The crowd roared its approval, and Draper bobbed his head. “But after much
deliberation by our judges, the first-place blue ribbon goes to Darrel Kronsky for
his polar bear sculpture!”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” said Toni, as she clapped politely and watched Kronsky
accept his ribbon. “After all, Kronsky’s a professional wood-carver who really knows
his stuff.”
“Second place,” Mayor Mobley said now, “goes to Chalmer’s Meats for their ice castle.”
He handed a fluttering red ribbon to Bud Chalmer and his employees. “And third place,
fittingly enough, goes to our delightful hosts here at the Cackleberry Club!”
There were cheers and whoops as Toni and Petra raced up to collect their ribbon.
“For their six-layer wedding cake!” Mayor Mobley added.
Toni grabbed the white ribbon and waved it above her head as Junior honked his horn
and shouted, “Whoop, whoop!”
“Congratulations,” said a voice at Suzanne’s elbow.
She turned to find Reverend Yoder. He was dressed in a long dark coat that was practically
threadbare at the elbows. And even though it made him look like the grim reaper, his
eyes were kind and crinkled with mirth.
“Thank you,” said Suzanne, “but I didn’t lift so much as a pinky finger. Toni and
Petra did all the carving, so they deserve all the credit.”
“Good for them,” said Reverend Yoder. “But my thanks to you for hosting this lovely
event.”
“I hope you’re going to stay and have a cup of hot cider with us,” said Suzanne. “And
enjoy some grilled brats and baked beans.”
“You’re always so kind,” said Reverend Yoder, “but I’m afraid I have some pressing
business.”
“Well, it is Sunday,” said Suzanne. “Your busy day.” She wasn’t a member of his congregation,
but she had friends who were.
Reverend Yoder smiled. “No, I just have to get back to my young guest.”
Suzanne wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly at first—and was instantly on alert,
all her pistons firing at once. She clutched Reverend Yoder’s arm, and said, “Young
guest? You have somebody staying with you at the church?”
Reverend Yoder nodded. “Yes, but only temporarily. Until I can contact the boy’s parents.”