Free Scorched Eggs by Laura Childs

bother me a bit.” Once they’d been open for a few months, Suzanne had introduced the idea—and the decorum—of afternoon tea. After the detritus from lunch was cleared away, the Cackleberry Club was transformed into a cozy little tearoom that looked like it might have been airlifted in from the Cotswolds in England. White linen tablecloths decorated the battered wood tables. A crazy quilt of cups and saucers, small plates, silver spoons, and butter knives was laid out. Tiny vigil lights were placed inside glass tea warmers and topped with chintz-decorated teapots.
    And the women of Kindred had willingly embraced the notion of afternoon tea, loving the bone china cups, finger sandwiches, and Old World gentility à la
Downton Abbey.
Sometimes their afternoon tea offerings were as simple as Chinese black tea and a scone with Devonshire cream. But when they catered an event, Petra created three-tiered trays overflowing with tiny triangle sandwiches that boasted fillings such as crab salad, dilled egg salad, and basil-pesto cream cheese.
    â€œSuzanne?”
    Suzanne had just handed the books and change to Cheryl when Bruce Winthrop walked in. He smiled sadly as Cheryl scurried past him.
    â€œBruce,” said Suzanne. “You look absolutely beat.”
    Winthrop nodded. “I am, but I’m trying to stay positive. I’ve been getting a lot of support from the community . . .” He favored her with a grateful smile. “Especially from friends like you.”
    â€œI meant what I said before. If there’s anything I can do.”
    Bruce seemed to hesitate, then made up his mind to go ahead.
    â€œMaybe there is, Suzanne,” said Winthrop. “I know you’re awfully friendly with Sheriff Doogie.”
    â€œI think he mostly drops by for Petra’s sticky buns and chocolate donuts.”
    Winthrop moved a step closer to her. “And I know you’re in a unique position to hear things. Heck, half the people in Kindred pass through your doors every week.” He was stammering a little now.
    â€œAre you asking me to keep my eyes and ears open?” said Suzanne.
    He smiled gratefully. “Could you? Would you?”
    â€œYou know I will,” Suzanne said without hesitation. “If I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll be sure to let you know. And the sheriff, too.”
    Winthrop let loose a long sigh of relief. “Thank you, Suzanne. I wasn’t sure if I should talk to you about this or not. But I remembered how instrumental you were in helping Sheriff Doogie figure out that awful thing up in the cemetery.”
    â€œLuck,” said Suzanne.
    â€œSmarts,” said Winthrop. He looked profoundly relieved, and his shoulders seemed to relax some. “So thank you. I appreciate
any
help you’re able to lend.”
    â€œI haven’t done anything yet,” said Suzanne, her heart going out to him again. “But I’m going to try. And just so you feel better, you’re not the first one to ask for my help.”
    Bruce Winthrop held up his right hand. His middle finger was crossed over his index finger. “Good to know,” he said. “And thanks.” Then he gave a wan smile and disappeared.
    *   *   *
    W
HAT
a sad state of affairs
, Suzanne thought to herself. She was poking a broom under one of the tables, trying to snag a few errant crumbs. Poor Hannah was dead, Bruce was all bent out of shape and maybe even dealing with a case of survivor’s remorse, and Sheriff Doogie was trying to track down any number of so-so suspects and question them. At this moment in time, even though she and her partners were doing the odious task of cleaning up, she felt quite happy and satisfied to be the proprietor of the Cackleberry Club. In fact, she thanked her lucky stars that she wasn’t one of the town’s politicos or first responders. That she hadn’t had to deal with the fire—or the