Free Scorched Eggs by Laura Childs Page A

aftermath of the fire—knowing that Hannah hadn’t survived.
    No, indeed, running the Cackleberry Club suited her just fine. And even with the downturn in the economy, they’d managed to hold their own rather well, thank you very much. She wasn’t sure if their continued prosperity was due to their breakfasts and lunches, afternoon tea, the Book Nook, or the Knitting Nest. Whatever the magic formula was, everything seemed to be working in sync.
    Suzanne straightened up, looked around, and smiled.
    There, almost done.
    A knock at the front door caused her smile to fade just a little. She walked over and called through the lace curtains, “I’m sorry, but we’re closed.”
    The knock sounded again.
    Is Doogie my persistent visitor? Has he come back for some reason?
    Suzanne swept the lace curtains aside only to find Gene Gandle staring in at her. Gandle not only wrote feature stories for the
Bugle
, he also handled ad sales, classifieds, sports, and obituaries, not necessarily in that order. His last feature story had been about a bull that had escaped from a pen and trapped a farmer inside his barn for nearly two days.
    Gandle held up a hand and made a spinning gesture. “Gotta talk to you, Suzanne.” His voice sounded hollow through the door. He also sounded upset.
    Reluctantly, knowing she probably shouldn’t, Suzanne unlatched the door and let Gandle in.
    â€œWhat?” she said.
    â€œAnd a fine afternoon to you, too,” said Gandle. He looked skinnier and goofier than usual and acted as if he was all jacked up.
    â€œWhat do you want, Gene?” Since it was too late for lunch, Suzanne figured Gandle was here to pump her for a few newsworthy tidbits.
    â€œThe big fire,” Gandle spit out.
    â€œTragic.”
    â€œWhat else do you know about it?” He pulled out a pad and pen.
    â€œThat Hannah Venable was killed and the entire building was destroyed,” said Suzanne.
    Gandle tapped a pen against his spiral notepad. “Well, I already know that.”
    â€œGene, what do you want?” Suzanne was fast losing her good humor. Actually, she’d left it in the dirt two minutes ago.
    â€œI understand that Sheriff Doogie was in here earlier.”
    â€œDoogie is always in here,” said Suzanne. She pointed at their old-fashioned, ’20s-era soda fountain counter, stools, and backdrop. “You see that stool at the end of the counter? I’m having a brass plate engraved. It’s going to say Property of the Sheriff’s Department.”
    â€œI understand Doogie has already found himself a couple of suspects,” said Gandle.
    â€œYou’d have to ask him,” said Suzanne.
    â€œI did ask him. Now I’m asking you.”
    â€œI don’t know why you think I know anything more.”
    â€œCome on, Suzanne,” Gandle said in his trademark wheedle. “Don’t tell me you’re not getting involved in this arson case. I know you were there. I
saw
you there.”
    â€œMe and half the town,” said Suzanne.
    â€œWhat can you tell me about Marty Wolfson?”
    â€œI really don’t know the man,” said Suzanne. “Except that he came storming into the café a few hours ago and tried to give the sheriff what for.”
    â€œI need more than just your folksy take on this, Suzanne, I need facts. I’m on deadline!” Gandle always acted like he was the third man on the Woodward and Bernstein team.
    â€œIt’s Saturday, Gene. Relax. The
Bugle
doesn’t come out until Thursday.”
    â€œIt’s about getting a jump on the other media,” said Gandle.
    â€œBy ‘other media’ you mean our local radio station? I understand they broadcast live from the scene of the fire.”
    â€œBut radio is so fleeting,” said Gandle, gesturing with his pen. “They do two minutes of news, five minutes of crappy commercials, then play a song. Nobody takes them