Doo gie slid his khaki bulk onto a nearby stool. She continued to scratch away with her colored chalk, writing down Corn Chowder, Egg Salad Sandwich, Turkey Fajita, Cackleberry Club Brown Sugar Meatloaf, and Pumpkin Pie.
Doogie gave a low whistle. “ That ’ s a fine lineup today, ” he told her.
“ Yes, it is, ” agreed Suzanne, dotting the i in pie. Doogie was a man who appreciated real home cooking, probably because he didn ’ t get much anymore. He was a widower whose wife had died of breast cancer some five years ago. After her death, he ’ d resigned from the state patrol and run for sheriff. Opposed by a former garbage hauler, he ’ d been elected in a landslide. Over the years, a few women had made a run at Doogie, but none had caught his eye. Doogie remained polite but standoffish.
“ Is that pie made fresh from real pumpkins? ” asked Doogie. “ ‘ Cause if it is, I ’ ll have me a piece. ”
“ Of course, you will, ” said Suzanne. When did Doogie not get a free ride at the Cackleberry Club? “ I was asking about the murder? ” she prompted again.
Doogie sucked air in through his front teeth. “ Thing ’ s are goin ’ slow. I ’ ve been doin ’ this by the book, following procedure, conducting interviews, but... ”
“ No hot leads? ” said Suzanne.
“ I got dog poop, ” admitted Doogie. “ Ozzie didn ’ t seem to have any enemies. ”
“ How about friends? ” asked Suzanne. “ Sometimes friends can become enemies. Anger, jealousy, disputes over money ... ”
“ Funny thing about that, too, ” said Doogie. “ Ozzie didn ’ t have a lot of close friends. Maybe folks are hesitant to cozy up to an undertaker... I don ’ t know. ”
“ Maybe so, ” said Suzanne. Although Missy had. For a while, anyway.
Doogie leaned across the counter. “ You heard anything, Suzanne? ”
Her front teeth worried her bottom lip for a moment and then she said, “ Earl Stensrud was in for breakfast a little while ago, trying to stir up rumors about George Draper. ”
“ What kind of rumors? ” Doogie asked, as his hooded eyes roved across the back counter.
“ Apparently Earl sold Driesden and Draper some key partner insurance and now George Draper is set to collect. ”
Doogie let out a sigh that sounded like a balloon deflat ing. “ George already mentioned that to me. ”
“ He did? ” Suzanne was surprised. George Draper was either a completely forthright guy or else a master at setting up an excellent smokescreen.
“ Anything else? ” asked Doogie. Now he seemed fixated with the chocolate-covered doughnuts that sat plump and glistening, covered with pink and yellow sprinkles, in the pastry case. Before the sprinkles, Suzanne used to decorate with little silver balls. But when a customer busted a filling biting down on one, she switched to the more dental-friendly sprinkles.
“ I have a theory, ” said Suzanne. “ That I ’ d like you to hear. ”
When Doogie scrunched up his face in disapproval, Su zanne pulled a doughnut from the case, set it on a small plate, and shoved it across the counter toward Doogie. That seemed to soften him up.
“ Okay, what ’ s your theory? ” asked Doogie, grabbing the doughnut and taking an enormous bite.
Doogie, the doughnut whisperer, Suzanne thought to herself. Then she shook her head to clear it and proceeded to lay out her meth lab theory. Basically postulating that crazy, whacked-out crackheads had swarmed out of the hills, on the hunt for supplies.
“ Already thought of that, ” Doogie told her as he b rushed away some of the sprinkles that had cascaded haphazardly down the front of his shirt. “ Or, I should say, George Draper mentioned it. He said it ’ s not uncommon for meth lab freaks to break into funeral homes and veterinarians ’ offices, looking for chemicals to brew up their poison. ”
“ So drugs were missing, ” said Suzanne.
Doogie nodded slowly. “ Appears so. ”
“ You think there ’ s any
Doogie gave a low whistle. “ That ’ s a fine lineup today, ” he told her.
“ Yes, it is, ” agreed Suzanne, dotting the i in pie. Doogie was a man who appreciated real home cooking, probably because he didn ’ t get much anymore. He was a widower whose wife had died of breast cancer some five years ago. After her death, he ’ d resigned from the state patrol and run for sheriff. Opposed by a former garbage hauler, he ’ d been elected in a landslide. Over the years, a few women had made a run at Doogie, but none had caught his eye. Doogie remained polite but standoffish.
“ Is that pie made fresh from real pumpkins? ” asked Doogie. “ ‘ Cause if it is, I ’ ll have me a piece. ”
“ Of course, you will, ” said Suzanne. When did Doogie not get a free ride at the Cackleberry Club? “ I was asking about the murder? ” she prompted again.
Doogie sucked air in through his front teeth. “ Thing ’ s are goin ’ slow. I ’ ve been doin ’ this by the book, following procedure, conducting interviews, but... ”
“ No hot leads? ” said Suzanne.
“ I got dog poop, ” admitted Doogie. “ Ozzie didn ’ t seem to have any enemies. ”
“ How about friends? ” asked Suzanne. “ Sometimes friends can become enemies. Anger, jealousy, disputes over money ... ”
“ Funny thing about that, too, ” said Doogie. “ Ozzie didn ’ t have a lot of close friends. Maybe folks are hesitant to cozy up to an undertaker... I don ’ t know. ”
“ Maybe so, ” said Suzanne. Although Missy had. For a while, anyway.
Doogie leaned across the counter. “ You heard anything, Suzanne? ”
Her front teeth worried her bottom lip for a moment and then she said, “ Earl Stensrud was in for breakfast a little while ago, trying to stir up rumors about George Draper. ”
“ What kind of rumors? ” Doogie asked, as his hooded eyes roved across the back counter.
“ Apparently Earl sold Driesden and Draper some key partner insurance and now George Draper is set to collect. ”
Doogie let out a sigh that sounded like a balloon deflat ing. “ George already mentioned that to me. ”
“ He did? ” Suzanne was surprised. George Draper was either a completely forthright guy or else a master at setting up an excellent smokescreen.
“ Anything else? ” asked Doogie. Now he seemed fixated with the chocolate-covered doughnuts that sat plump and glistening, covered with pink and yellow sprinkles, in the pastry case. Before the sprinkles, Suzanne used to decorate with little silver balls. But when a customer busted a filling biting down on one, she switched to the more dental-friendly sprinkles.
“ I have a theory, ” said Suzanne. “ That I ’ d like you to hear. ”
When Doogie scrunched up his face in disapproval, Su zanne pulled a doughnut from the case, set it on a small plate, and shoved it across the counter toward Doogie. That seemed to soften him up.
“ Okay, what ’ s your theory? ” asked Doogie, grabbing the doughnut and taking an enormous bite.
Doogie, the doughnut whisperer, Suzanne thought to herself. Then she shook her head to clear it and proceeded to lay out her meth lab theory. Basically postulating that crazy, whacked-out crackheads had swarmed out of the hills, on the hunt for supplies.
“ Already thought of that, ” Doogie told her as he b rushed away some of the sprinkles that had cascaded haphazardly down the front of his shirt. “ Or, I should say, George Draper mentioned it. He said it ’ s not uncommon for meth lab freaks to break into funeral homes and veterinarians ’ offices, looking for chemicals to brew up their poison. ”
“ So drugs were missing, ” said Suzanne.
Doogie nodded slowly. “ Appears so. ”
“ You think there ’ s any
Similar Books
