Scorched Eggs (23 page)

There were also marching contingents of Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, and the local Jaycees. They were followed by the Circle K Riding Club, ten riders mounted on high-stepping matched palomino horses.

Suzanne wondered if any of these younger, lanky, determined-looking women would put up stiff competition for her tomorrow afternoon. She guessed they definitely would.

“This is great,” said Sam, pulling her tight against him. “Very honest and small town. I love it.”

“Do you really?” Suzanne asked. Sam was from the East Coast and had gone to school in Chicago. She sometimes wondered if this was all a little tame for his big-city sensibilities.

“I love everything about it,” he said as he planted a kiss on her forehead.

A barnyard float came next, complete with live lambs and red hens against a backdrop of giant orange carrots.

“Look at that!” said Junior, snapping to attention. “World War II vets.” A Jeep Wrangler, its ragtop pushed down, carried two white-haired fellows past the cheering crowd.

“Sad to say there's not many of them around anymore,” Sam murmured.

Junior managed a combination salute and fist pump. “Good for you, boys!” he screamed. “You sure whipped them Nazis!”

“Sshh!” said Toni, tugging at his sleeve. “Pipe down, there are other vets here, too. From the Korean War and Vietnam and all the Middle East wars.”

“God bless them all,” Suzanne whispered.

“Holy crapola,” said Toni, taking a step back. “Here come the Kindred Jesters.”

“Who are they?” Sam asked. But a second later the clown club was virtually on top of them. A clown in a black-and-white jailbird costume drove a tiny race car with an
ah-oo-gah
horn directly at the crowd, swerving at the very last moment. A clown with a tattered red vest and purple pants juggled large white balls. There were almost a dozen more clowns, each with his own crazy costume and shtick.

As they buzzed about, one clown ran directly up to Suzanne, blew up a pink balloon, bent and twisted it into a so-so poodle dog, then handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think.”

The Jessup High School band marched by, a few more floats glided past, and then there was the usual parade of bigwigs and politicos riding in convertibles: Mayor Mobley, a smiling congressman, and some other poor stiff that Suzanne didn't recognize because she probably hadn't voted for him.

There was a loud
whoop whoop
from Sheriff Doogie's siren as he drove his cruiser past, looking both official and officious, and then the parade was over.

“You want to come home and have a bite with me?” Suzanne asked Sam. “I could fix us grilled cheese sandwiches.” She was pleased she hadn't offered beef Wellington or something equally complicated.

“I'd love to, sweetheart,” said Sam. “But I can't. I have to dash back to the hospital.” He gave her a quick kiss good-bye and was off.

“Come with us,” Toni invited. “We're gonna cruise down to Schmitt's Bar and see what's shakin'.”

“No thanks,” said Suzanne. “I think I'll just head home.”

“Be careful!” called Toni as Junior grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

“Always,” said Suzanne.

She figured Kindred would be buzzing with people tonight, but when she turned down Ivy Street, heading for her car, the street was practically deserted. No parade goers, no kids on skateboards, not even a stray dog. It was full-on dark now, with cars lining both sides of the narrow street, lights burning in a few of the homes. What had been a clear day had turned cloudy, so that added to the almost oppressive darkness.

I hope it's nice and sunny tomorrow for the barrel racing
, Suzanne thought as she walked along.
Hope I'm ready to go for broke on my horse.

When she saw her car up ahead, Suzanne hit her clicker and the taillights flashed red.

Good car, smart car
, she thought.
Safe car.

She climbed in, started the engine, and cruised to the end of the block. Now she had a choice. She could circle back the way she'd come and maybe run smack-dab into the tail end of the parade and all the buses for the marchers, or she could hang a right, cruise along Catawba Parkway, and then come out a few blocks from home. A little longer, but not so well traveled, and certainly very scenic.

Suzanne took the parkway. It ran parallel with Catawba Creek, a burbling little stream that tumbled down through a series of gorges and valleys, and boasted its fair share of rainbow and brook trout.

So pretty, she thought, as she skimmed past stands of birch trees and a few weeping willows. There were scenic turnoffs, too, that afforded postcard-perfect views of the creek. In high summer, kids rode the creek on inner tubes, boogie boards, and colorful rafts. A kayak club set up an obstacle course. Now, as the days grew cooler and a little shorter, no one ventured out.

It wasn't until Suzanne made a sweeping S-turn past a picnic area that she noticed the car behind her. She supposed it had been there all along, trailing along, just sort of dogging its way slowly like she was.

Only now it had crept up behind her.

Suzanne eased her foot off the gas and eased toward the shoulder. Maybe the driver was in a huff and wanted to pass.

But, no, instead of passing, the car slid right up behind her.

What? He doesn't want to pass me? Okay then . . .

Suzanne juiced the accelerator and sped up. In a move she didn't expect, the car behind her sped up, too. In fact, now the nose of his car was practically riding her bumper. If she decided to hit her brakes for any reason, he'd for sure rear-end her.

What's going on?

Suzanne felt the first tickle of apprehension work its way into the pit of her stomach. She was alone, driving a deserted stretch of road—what's not to worry about? She made up her mind that, first chance she got, at the very first road that intersected this one, she'd execute a speedy turn and leave this jerk in the dust.

She glanced into her rearview mirror. Yup, he was still there. And, wouldn't you know it, the jerk had his brights on, so she couldn't see who was behind the wheel. Could she see his license plate? She squinted into the light. No. Couldn't make it out.

No matter, the turn onto Leandro Lane was just up ahead. She'd amble along, and then, without bothering to signal, hang a quick left.

Inhaling deeply, Suzanne glanced into her rearview mirror, then flicked her eyes on the road ahead. Twenty more feet. The sign for Leandro Lane loomed large.

She goosed the gas and sped into her left-hand turn.

And wouldn't you know it—her pursuer did the same thing!

Dang! This was getting serious. So what now? Grab her cell phone and call the Law Enforcement Center? Tell them some idiot was tailgating her and scaring her half to death? Or . . .

Suzanne slalomed right, then left, then right again. She saw the opening for the alley at the last minute. Could she make it without clipping that white garage? There was only one way to find out.

Zoom!
Tires squealing, she cranked the wheel hard and headed down the alley.

Was he behind her? No. But what if he'd turned and was going to come down the alley from the other direction?

Suzanne saw an open garage and, without a moment's hesitation, pulled in. She killed the lights, then sat there, doors locked, engine ticking down slowly.

Am I okay? Did I lose him?

Thirty seconds later she saw a sweep of headlights. Someone was bumping down the alley. Was it the owner of this garage? Or her weird pursuer?

Suzanne waited, holding her breath, her hand on her cell phone, ready to press 911.

Gravel crunched as the car traveled slowly down the alley. Something inside Suzanne, her female intuition, the innate sense all women have for knowing when they're in a dangerous situation, made her scrunch down.

The car rolled past her borrowed garage, slowly, stealthily, as if on the hunt.

At the last moment, Suzanne raised her head to grab a peek. And saw a man in a yellow-and-orange-striped costume with a red fright wig to match.

A clown! Probably one from tonight's parade. Why had he followed her? What did he want?

Was he one of Doogie's suspects come to call? Trying to scare her away from asking questions and investigating Hannah's murder? Or did he have something more sinister in mind?

Suzanne thought he might. Which is why she waited another twenty minutes before she backed her car out, gunned her motor, and drove home as if her life depended on it.

Which it probably did.

“
D
O
you guys know who's in the Kindred Jesters Club?” Suzanne asked. It was Fried Egg Friday at the Cackleberry Club and Petra was standing at the stove sizzling sausages with onions, yellow peppers, and plump mushrooms. Toni was busy dicing more vegetables. The kitchen smelled of baking bread, fresh oranges, and fennel sausage.

“Why do you ask?” said Petra. “Are you thinking about joining?”

“Ugh,” said Toni, giving a little shiver as she set out a row of plates. “Clowns always creep me out. I particularly didn't like those guys last night. All frenetic and weird with their dinky little cars and silly antics. Reminds me of those killer clown movies.”

“Clowns scare the bejeebers out of me, too,” said Suzanne. And then she added, “I'm pretty sure one followed me last night.”

“What are you talking about?” said Petra. “A killer clown?”

“No,” said Suzanne. “A real clown. Some goofball in a yellow-and-orange-striped jumpsuit with a red fright wig and nose to match.”

“Sounds like my boyfriend from high school,” said Toni.

“Be serious,” said Suzanne.

“I am!” said Toni.

“Wait a minute,” said Petra. “What are you saying, Suzanne? That someone dressed as a clown followed you home?” She double-cracked two eggs into a bowl to punctuate her sentence.

“He didn't get the chance to follow me
home
,” Suzanne explained, “because I drove my car down an alley and hid in an empty garage.”

“Dear Lord,” said Petra, putting a hand to her throat. “So you really were threatened.”

“But you took evasive driving measures,” said Toni. “Good girl.”

“Not so good,” said Suzanne. “Because I don't know who it was.”

“Who do you
think
it was?” Petra asked. Suzanne had her full attention now.

Suzanne shook her head. “No idea.”

“Take a wild guess,” said Petra.

“Jack Venable, Marty Wolfson, Darrel Fuhrman?” said Suzanne. “Take your pick. They all know I've been asking questions about them. Investigating them.”

“But not Ricky Wilcox?” said Petra.

“It wouldn't be Ricky,” said Toni. “He's a pussycat. He didn't have anything to do with Hannah's murder.”

“Still,” said Petra, “he's on Doogie's list.”

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Toni reminded her.

“Are you going to tell Doogie about the clown?” Petra asked.

“I don't know,” said Suzanne. “If I do, he'll make me back way off. When what I really want to do now is catch that horrible clown person and let my dogs rip him to shreds.”

“Easy, girl,” said Toni. “Save some of that wrath and rancor for later. We've got a mighty full day ahead of us.”

“I know,” said Suzanne. “I wish we didn't.” She knew she had to get through breakfast and lunch, rush over to the farm and saddle up Mocha, try to work up her competitive spirit for the barrel racing competition, then run back here and be charming for their dinner theater.

After last night's close call, Suzanne felt nervous and on edge. Today would have been a dandy time to take a mental health day. On the other hand, if they lived in Europe, they could all go on holiday for months at a time.

“I feel responsible,” Petra said. “After all, I'm the one who urged you to get involved in Hannah's murder investigation.”

“You're not responsible,” said Suzanne. “I went into this of my own free will.”

“And now it's time to quit,” said Petra. Tears glistened in her eyes as she twisted her hands and then wiped them flat against her apron. “We certainly don't want
you
in any jeopardy.”

“Time to quit,” Toni agreed.

But Suzanne, still angry from last night, determined not to be bullied or harassed, knew this was the time to get deadly serious.

*   *   *

W
ORKING
on autopilot, her brain still mulling over possibilities, Suzanne took orders, poured coffee, worked the cash register, and honchoed the café in general. Because it was Friday, and because today was the start of the Logan County Fair, a big deal in these parts, the Cackleberry Club was extra busy. Breakfast became a blur of sausages, fried eggs, baking powder biscuits, pancakes, and coffee.

Lunch wasn't all that different. Chilled blueberry soup, caprese salad, tuna salad in a tomato cup, and egg salad sandwiches. Suzanne smiled and chirped friendly greetings, wrote down orders, readily agreed to substitutions, and delivered plates of food to their customers.

“Two more caprese salads,” Suzanne told Petra. She waved her order sheet in front of Petra's nose, then stuck it on a spindle.

“We've been selling those like hotcakes,” said Petra.

“Do we ever sell hotcakes like caprese salads?” asked Toni. She was poised by the stove, ready to grab an order.

“Let me think about that.” Petra smiled. Then, “Suzanne, do you think you could make a trash run for me?”

“Sure,” said Suzanne.

“As soon as we finish up with lunch,” said Petra, “I'm going to roll up my sleeves and get everything prepped for tonight so we're good and ready. And I always like to start with a clean kitchen.”

“I wish I was sticking around to help,” said Suzanne, hesitating at the back door as she gathered up the trash. “Maybe I
should
stick around.”

“No way,” said Petra. “You're going to ride that horse of yours if I have to slap on a pair of chaps and do it for you.”

“Whoa,” said Toni. “That I'd like to see.”

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
hefted the lid of the Dumpster, tossed in her bags of trash, and reached up to close the lid. That's when the sky went black and a rustle of beating wings filled her ears.

Raising a hand in surprise, Suzanne was stunned to see an owl swooping upward, like a glider pilot who'd dipped into an air pocket and then was rising straight up on a thermal.

It was the mother owl!

“Hey,” Suzanne cried. “Come back here. I'm the one who's got your baby!”

The owl settled high up in the crook of the oak tree and gazed down at her.

“Yeah,” said Suzanne. “I'm talkin' to you, Momma. He's a cute little critter and I have to admit that I've grown quite fond of him, but I think you're far better equipped to care for him than I am.”

The owl pivoted her head sideways, then back again. She seemed to be contemplating Suzanne's words.

“So what do you think? If I climbed up there, I could hand him over to you. Plop him right there in your nest in the hollow tree. We'd call it even, no harm done.”

The owl looked down at her, lifted a claw, and blinked.

“Was that a yes?” Suzanne said, just as a blue Ford pickup came rumbling into the back parking lot. She watched the truck roll to a stop and shudder once as it backfired loudly. When Suzanne looked up, the owl had disappeared.

Darn it.

Kit and Ricky climbed out of the truck. They were looking at her as if she was a little cuckoo.

“Is everything okay?” Kit asked.

“Fine,” said Suzanne. She threw an arm up and made a vague gesture toward the tree. “Just trying to strike a deal with the momma owl up there. Trying to get her baby back to her.”

Ricky pointed at the roof of his truck. “I brought along my extension ladder. I'm gonna use it to hang the metal rod and curtain for the play tonight. After I'm finished I could lean it up against your tree. Put your little owl back in his nest all safe and sound.”

“That would be great,” said Suzanne. “Except I'd like to be the one to do it, okay?”

Ricky nodded. “Sure. I'll leave the ladder out back once I'm finished with the curtain.”

“We borrowed that velvet curtain from Petra's church,” said Kit. “And is it ever gorgeous. The deep midnight blue is going to look elegant hanging in the Cackleberry Club.” She grinned. “I think it's going to be a great night.”

“Let's hope so,” said Suzanne.

*   *   *

“
I
brought two shirts for you to try,” said Toni. She and Suzanne were hunkered in the office just off the Book Nook. Toni, the queen of Western garb, had convinced Suzanne that it was crucial to dress the part and look like a real rodeo queen. So now she held up a red satin shirt with white pearl snaps and a black paisley shirt with gold insets and gold buttons.

“I don't know,” said Suzanne. “Which do you think is best?” They were both a little gaudy for her taste. Still, it was a Western-style competition. Maybe if she looked the part she'd be able to live and breathe the part, too.

“You're wearing jeans and boots?”

“Sure. And my cowboy hat.”

“What color's your hat?”

“Brown.”

“Maybe the red shirt,” said Toni.

“It looks a little tight.”

“It's supposed to be tight. It's a
fitted
shirt.”

Suzanne peeled off her T-shirt and struggled into Toni's red shirt.

“Is Sam coming to watch?” asked Toni.

“No. I told him not to, I'd be too nervous if he was there.”

“Hey,” said Toni, reaching out to brush away an invisible speck. “That shirt looks cool on you.”

“It's
really
tight,” said Suzanne, inhaling mightily as she tried to pull the shirt together in front. It was satin, so it didn't stretch. Instead, the shirt clung to her body as if it were spray-painted on. “I can barely snap it.”

Toni smiled. “That's the whole idea, sweetie. You want to look just this side of hoochie momma so you'll get noticed favorably by the judges.”

“And if my shirt pops open right in the middle of a cloverleaf turn?”

“Then you might even win.”

“It's a timed trial,” said Suzanne.

“So have a good time!”

*   *   *

S
UZANNE
drove across the field to the barn, her nerves tingling, her stomach churning but revved with excitement, too.

She'd polished her saddle two days earlier and now the rich leather fairly gleamed as it caught the rays of light that filtered into the barn.

“This is it,” she whispered to Mocha as she slipped his bridle on, then tossed the saddle on his back. “There's no turning back now.”

In his stall next to Mocha, Grommet raised his head and nickered softly. Good luck wishes from one four-legged friend to another.

And then Suzanne was cantering slowly down the driveway, warming Mocha up, warming herself up for what was to come. She could have borrowed a horse trailer and driven over in style, but she liked the idea of riding the two miles to the fairgrounds. It gave her and Mocha time to get in synch with each other, for him to feel her gentle hands jiggling the bit in his mouth and her knees pressing expertly against his sides.

And slowly, inexorably, the excitement built within both of them as they pranced their way down the lane to the fairgrounds. In the distance, Suzanne could see an enormous Ferris wheel, all yellow metal with pink neon lights glowing on the sides. She remembered how her stomach got that sinking feeling every time she rode a Ferris wheel and the car came over the top and dropped down. That's how she felt now.

But as she drew closer, where crowds hurried along and the flags atop the grandstand snapped hard in the wind, the roar from the midway suddenly sounded like a roar of victory.

*   *   *

T
HE
entire area surrounding the show ring and barrel racing course was parked up with horse trailers and pickup trucks. Would-be cowboys and cowgirls were everywhere, doing last-minute grooming, adjusting equipment, spit polishing boots. Suzanne had her entry number, number twenty-three, pinned to the back of her shirt, and was walking Mocha in a lazy circle where the prevalent aromas consisted of horses, hay, and saddle soap.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as rider after rider entered the ring, kicked their horse into a galloping start, and swiftly flew around the barrels.

Then Suzanne's number was announced over the fuzzy loudspeaker and it was her turn. Heart pounding, she hopped onto Mocha's back and trotted smartly over to the starting line. Saying a little prayer, she kicked Mocha sharply and cried out, “Hyah!” Suddenly she was flying through the entry gate, where she broke the invisible beam and set the timer in relentless motion.

There was no time to think! The crowd cheered loudly, clouds of brown dust blew into her eyes, her legs flailed and mashed up against the barrels. She felt like she was traveling ninety miles an hour as she navigated the cloverleaf pattern, almost unaware of making the turns, relying strictly on instinct. The glimpses she caught of the crowd, the barrels, and Mocha's bobbing head felt like miniature snapshots in time. Just
click, click, click
.

And then, after what felt like about eight seconds but surely had to have been more, Suzanne was flying for home. Mocha charged across the finish line, her time was officially clocked, and the race was over. She reined him in hard, causing him to rear up slightly, and an appreciative “Oooh” rippled through the crowd.

I'm a cowgirl now
, Suzanne thought.
A real live cowgirl. Well, at least I was for a few fleeting seconds
.

She leaned forward, patted Mocha on his lathered-up shoulders, and tried to relax. Now what? Oh, she had to wait for the final results. Of course, she did. That was the whole point of her jouncing wild ride. See what kind of time she was able to stack up against a bunch of riders who were almost twenty years her junior. She slipped off her horse and stood stock-still, trying to catch her breath, listening to the miniature thunder of pounding hooves as other riders navigated the course.

Ten minutes later, the women's barrel racing event was complete and her wait was finally over. The announcer, a white-haired man in a powder blue Western-style leisure suit and enormous white hat, mounted the viewing stand and started calling out numbers. His assistant, a girl in a brown vest and fringed suede skirt, held a handful of ribbons.