Bedeviled Eggs (35 page)

making flat blats. As
it rocked to a stop, four volunteer fire
men jumped from the cab. Hoses
were unfurled, wrenches
clanked against fire hydrants, and great gluts of water
began to surge. But it
was all too little, too late. All the oil and grease and gas had burned like a
cheap cheeseburger
on Freddy’s
grill.

“Poor car,” Suzanne
mourned.

“Better we should go
back inside,” said Sam.

Suzanne shook her
head. No. She wanted to watch.
“I’m 
...I’m in shock,” she told him.

Sam did a
quick check of her pulse, respiration, and skin
pallor. “Emotional shock “was his
final diagnosis.

The wail
of another siren caused everyone to crane their
necks.

A maroon-and-gold
sheriff car careened up, stopped in
the middle of the street, and Sheriff Doogie
hopped out
Dressed
in civvies, he wore blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt
that said,
This isn‘t a beer
gut, it’s a liquid grain storage facility.
Stalking over to the burned-out
car, Doogie surveyed
the wreckage, then stomped back toward Schmitt’s Bar,
trying not to stumble over the tangle of fire hoses. When
he caught sight of
Suzanne, he said, “Isn’t that your car?”

“It
was
my
car,” said a glum Suzanne.

“What the hale holy
hector happened?” Doogie demanded. Then, without giving Suzanne time to
answer,
said,
“You start smoking again, Suzanne?”

Suzanne shook her
head. “Hardly.”

Doogie
looked puzzled. “You notice any burning smell
when you parked that thing? Any
engine lights come on?
Or
maybe the muffler was shot?”

“No.”

“This looks fairly
suspicious,” Doogie said, as one of
the firemen continued to pour water on the
smoldering
wreck.
“Could have even been intentional?”

“Gee,” Suzanne said,
under her bream. “You think?”

“What?”
said Doogie, staring into the crowd, as if he
might pick out a guilty face or
two. “Huh?”

“You don’t think it
was random vandalism?” Sam asked.

“Not sure,” said
Doogie, “although if I was a kid who
wanted to cause a heck of a commotion I might
have set my
sights on this BMW here.” He gestured with an upturned
thumb at Sam’s car.

“Thanks a lot,” said
Sam.

Suzanne didn’t want
to leave, of course, but the crowd was piling back into Schmitt’s Bar, the
really big excite
ment concluded for the night. Finally, Sam convinced Suzanne to climb
into his car. By that time she was shaking from the cold and looking more than
a little lost.

“I’ll
take you home,” he told her, in a voice that was
both sympathetic and tender.

“You’ll stay over?”
she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Of
course. If that’s what you want.”

She leaned against his
shoulder. “That’s what I want.”

He turned the key,
cranked up the heater, and pulled
away from the curb slowly. As they drove past the
smolder
ing
remains of Suzanne’s car, Sam said, “Do you think it
was random?”

Suzanne stared at the
burned-out hulk. “No, I don’t,” she
said in a whisper.

Sam put an arm around
her and pulled her closer.
“Deliberate?”

“Yes.”

“But why pick on you?
On your car?”

“Because,” said
Suzanne, “it was meant to be a warning.”

Suzanne
woke to crumpled sheets, warm memories, and
an empty bed.

She let out a gasp.
Oh
no!

It crossed her mind
that her romance, her fling, her
whatever wonderful thing it might have been, was sud
denly ancient
history. Then a dazzling man wearing a tight
T-shirt and an even tighter pair
of jeans appeared in her
bedroom doorway holding a steaming mug of coffee.

‘This could become a
habit,” Sam drawled. He smiled
at her in the morning light, his hair tumbled and mussed,
looking more youthful man
ever.

“The coffee?” Suzanne
asked, modestly arranging a
sheet
around herself.

“No,
you.” Sam sauntered over to her and handed her
the coffee.

Suzanne
accepted it, took a sip, and glanced at the clock
on the nightstand. ‘Ten thirty! I
can’t believe I slept so
late!”

“You were in dire need
of restorative sleep,” said Sam. He sat down next to her on the bed and gently
kissed her
forehead.

“We didn’t get to
sleep
that
early,” she told him.

He grinned. “No, we
didn’t.”

The dance card of
last night’s bizarre events flashed
through her brain. “Did you call...?”

“Shelby’s.” He
nodded. “They’ll tow your car to the ga
rage. What’s left of it.”

“I don’t think
hammering on a new fender or ironing out
the front bumper is going to do the trick.”

“No, but they can put
together an estimate for your in
surance
company.”

“Ah,” she said, “that’s
how that works.” Suzanne sa
vored his closeness as she thought for a few moments. “I
better call Toni and
see if I can get myself a loaner for a
couple of days.”

‘Toni owns a used car
lot?”

“Junior has a
collection,” said Suzanne.

“Sounds like a plan
then. And while you’re busy with that,
might I inquire where you keep
the kibble? You have two
canines who are demanding room service,
s’il vous plait
.”

“Red plastic barrel
in the pantry off the kitchen,” she
said, as she reached for the phone.

Toni answered on the
sixth ring. A sleepy, “Hello?”

“Happy Halloween!” was
Suzanne’s greeting,

“You’re chipper this
morning.” Toni yawned.

“I
got my full eight hours of
sleep,” said Suzanne.
Well, maybe seven and a half.
“Listen, does Junior
have an extra
car I can
borrow?”

“What’s wrong with
your car?”

“Somebody
barbequed it,” said Suzanne. “Outside
Schmitt’s Bar last night”

“What!” came Tom’s
shrill bark. “Are you serious? Can
it be repaired?”

“We might be able to
salvage the engine block and turn
it into an end table.”

“Holy smokes,”
breathed Toni.

“So I was hoping,”
said Suzanne, “that Junior could
loan
me a car. Or rent me one.”

“For you, it’s gratis,”
said Toni. “And, yes, Junior has an
entire fleet of available junkers. He’s your
basic nightmare
used car dealer who can’t bear to part with anything.”

“Excellent,”
said Suzanne. “At least it’ll give me a set
of wheels until I square things
away with my insurance
company.”

“Not to worry,” Toni
promised. “I’ll have Junior run one
of his classics over to you right away.” She
paused. “Only
one problem.”

“What’s that?’

Toni cackled
wickedly. “The tires are probably gonna be
a lot like Junior, overinflated
and going bald!”

“I love that sound,”
Sam told her. He was sitting at the
kitchen table, sipping coffee, moving a sugar
bowl around
in circles.

Suzanne dipped another
slice of French baguette into her mixture of eggs, milk, cinnamon, and vanilla,
then plopped
it into a heavy cast-iron skillet bubbling with butter.

“You mean the sizzle
of the French toast?’ she asked.

“I’m talking about
the sound of someone fixing break
fast for me,” said Sam. “All the little tips and
taps and
clicks and clacks of
home cooking.”

“Happy to do it,” she
said, grabbing a bottle of Vermont maple syrup from the refrigerator. “And
could you pop this
in the microwave to speed things along, please? Oh, take
the metal cap off first”

“And set the table?”

“Sure,”
she said, sounding a little surprised. “If you
don’t mind.”

“Mind?’
said Sam. “I’m usually puttering around by
myself in the morning, eating
three-day-old Entenmann’s
Crumb
Cake. This is a rare treat.”

Hopefully
not too rare,
she decided.
Hopefully an event
that will be repeated again and again.

Suzanne focused on her
French toast, while Sam set
cheery orange plates on linen placemats, then peered in
a
couple
of drawers until he found the silverware.

“Fantastic!”
Sam declared; when they finally sat down
to eat.

“If I’d
had the right kind of goat cheese, I would have
made stuffed French toast,”
Suzanne told him.

Sam
closed his eyes and let his fingertips do a light
pitty-pat dance against his
chest “Be still my heart.”

Suzanne managed to eat
three slices of French toast,
while Sam downed five slices. As well as another mug of
coffee, a glass of
fresh-squeezed orange juice, and great
puddles of syrup.

Finally, after they’d
eaten, chatted, and marveled at how
sticky their fingers were, Sam hunched forward
across the table and said, “You’re sure somebody torched your car on
purpose?”

“Pretty sure. I mean,
how often do you see cars just
blowing
up?”

“In Bruce Willis
movies,” said Sam, “a lot”

“But in real life?”
Suzanne asked.

“Hmm,” said Sam. “Hardly
ever.”

“Exactly my point.”

“And you think it was
a warning,” said Sam.

“Had to
be,” said Suzanne. “Somebody got wind that
I’ve been doing a little sleuthing.”

“Snooping,” Sam
amended.

“No,” said Suzanne, “snooping
is being nosy for amuse
ment purposes only. Sleuthing is trying to connect clues
to
an actual crime.”

“Did you just make
that up?” Sam asked. “Or did you
read
it in a Nancy Drew mystery?”

Suzanne shrugged. “It
just came to me on the spot.”

“You’re really quite
brilliant, you know that?”

“No,” said Suzanne, “I
really don’t.”
But I sure don’t
mind hearing it. From you, that is.

“This is
great,” said Sam, stretching his legs out. “I wish
we could sit here all day and
just eat and talk.” He peered
at her. “But I’m guessing you have to take off for the
Cack
leberry Club fairly soon?”

“We’re
officially closed today, so no breakfast or brunch to prepare. But I do have to
head over and help with prepa
rations
for tonight”

“Are you looking
forward to your big Halloween party?”

“I am, although two
murders have kind of taken the
edge off things. That and my exploding car.”

“I predict this
evening will be smooth sailing,” said
Sam. “No problems, just your magical little
goblin fantasy
party.”

“I hope
you’re right,” said Suzanne, reaching for his
plate. She stopped, gave him a
speculative gaze. “You have
to
wear a costume tonight, you know.”

Sam looked startled. “I
do?’

“Sure. It’s a costume
party.”

Sam didn’t look
convinced. “You’re not just saying that,
are you? I mean, if I show up
dressed like a Klingon, you’re
all not going to be in street clothes laughing at me?”

“It’s a funny idea,”
said Suzanne, “but no. It really is a
costume party.”

“What are
you
going
to wear?” Sam asked.

She gave
him a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t tell anyone,
but I’m going as the Headless
Horseman.”

Sam was momentarily
charmed. “So you’re going to
ride
your horse, too?”