Free Eggs Benedict Arnold by Laura Childs Page A

she leased the land and the farmhouse to a farmer named Ducovny.
    Squinting across the field, Suzanne was just able to make out a shimmer of buildings. Ducovny and his wife lived in the farmhouse and took care of the horse she had bought for herself a month or so ago. A nice reddish brown quarter horse named Mocha Gent. Stocky and blocky, Mocha was just the kind of horse who could dodge and dance his way around a barrel racing course, or chug along on long trail rides.
    Lots of evenings, Suzanne and Baxter would down a quick dinner, then drive back to the farmhouse where Suzanne would throw an Indian blanket and worn leather saddle on Mocha ’ s broad back, then take a leisurely canter around the perimeter of the field. Sometimes Baxter lazed in the barn on a bale of hay, sometimes he loped along beside them.
    “ Hey, Bax, ” Suzanne called to Baxter, whose tail gave a welcoming thump, then revved into a fast drumming mo tion. “ Ready to pack it in for the day? ”
    “ Roowr, ” he growled. Ready to go.
    “ Me, too, ” Suzanne told him. “ I ’ m beat. ” She un cli pped Baxter from his long lead and opened the passenger door of her Ford Taurus. Baxter jumped in and settled down on the front seat.
    Suzanne had intended to go right home. Fix a quick sup per, slip into a warm bath, then maybe catch an old black-and-white movie on Turner Classic Movies. Maybe Sunset Boulevard or The Maltese Falcon was playing tonight. Or something light and frothy, with Fred Astaire.
    Suzanne was bone tired and still reeling a bit from Ozzie ’ s murder. But the notion of meth lab assholes break ing into Driesden and Draper to steal drugs intrigued her. Kept whirling in her brain like a big thumpin ’ load of tow els tossed in her old Kenmore washer.
    “ Change of plans, ” she told Baxter as they zoomed along. “ Hope you can wait ten more minutes for din-din. ” When Baxter gazed at her with limpid brown eyes, she added, “ I ’ ll make it worth your while. ”
    “ Grrrr? ” he growled.
    “ Yeah, ” she said, “ I could probably manage gravy. ”
    Hanging a quick left, Suzanne cruised slowly through Kindred ’ s downtown. It was both peaceful and pretty.
    Lots of vintage yellow and red brick buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, like old World War I solders . Diagonal park ing on the streets. Nice shops like Kuyper ’ s Drug Store, the Kindred Bakery, the Ben Franklin, and Root 66, a hair salon run by Gregg and Brett, two gay guys who did a mean color and foil and whose styling techniques ran the gamut from sleek and posh to Hindenburg-sized beehives.
    The largest, really the prettiest, building downtown was the Chandler Building, a three-story tower of red stone. This was where Bobby Wake ’ s law offices had been located, and this was the building that his widow, Carmen Copeland, had recently purchased. Now th e first floor had been turned into Alchemy Boutique. As Suzanne crept slowly toward it, she could see large, well-lit windows swagged with elegant mauve draperies. Quite a change from the garish video store th at had inhabited the space earlier. And, as Suzanne coasted past the front, she saw black lacquered mannequins dressed in chic, red sheath dresses and short, thigh-skimming geometric shifts. Since all the lights blazed inside, Suzanne imagined that Missy Langston was working away, artfully arranging bangles and bags, hanging jackets and T- shirts, putting on the finishing touches for the big opening.
    Then Suzanne swung out Valley View Road, past the OK Used Car Lot, the Lo Mein Palace, and Pizzaluna ’ s, and pulled into the parking lot of Westvale Medical Clinic. Turning the engine off, Suzanne listened to the tick-tick-tick of her engine cooling. She touched her palms to her cheeks, blinked at herself in the rearview mirror, and thought about the many times she ’ d breezed over here when Walter was on staff.
    But that was then and this was now, she told herself. Grief was still a part of her