Eggs Benedict Arnold (41 page)

Dil shook his head.

“
How about Bo?
”

Again a shake of the head.

“
But you knew about the Cackleberry Club,
”
prompted
Suzanne.
“
You went there the other day. Yesterday.
”

A ghost of a smile played at Dil
’
s lips.
“
Sandwiches. Good ones.
”

“
Dil... can I call you Dil?
”

The man nodded.

“
How did you know about the Cackleberry Club?
”

He lifted his head and stared at her then.
“
They told me...
”

“
Who told you?
”

“
Lady at the hospital.
”

“
What did she tell you?
”

“
Said Walter
’
s wife ran it.
”

“
That
’
s right,
”
said Suzanne.
“
I
’
m Walter
’
s wife.
”

Dil stared at her, licked his lips, stared some more. Fi
nally said, in an incredulous tone,
“
You
’
re Walter
’
s wife?
”

“
Yes. I
’
m Suzanne. Suzanne
The
tz.
”

The man slowly reached out his hand.
“
Nice to meet you.
”

Suzanne accepted his hand.
“
Nice to meet you, Dil.
”

Dil picked up a long stick and poked at the fire, while Su
zanne tried to figure out what to ask next. She didn
’
t want to
go there, but she knew she had to at least broach the subject.

“
You were in the park last Sunday,
”
she said.

“
Park,
”
he repeated.

“
During the fair,
”
Suzanne pushed.
“
You remember, the
face painting and the food and stuff.
”

“
Okay,
”
said Dil.

“
Did you see something?
”

Dil pulled his knees up and lowered his head.
“
No.
”

“
Did you
do
something?
”

Dark eyes stared up at her.
“
What?
”

Suzanne swallowed hard.
“
In that big house over on Front Street?
”

“
I walked by it,
”
he said.
“
That
’
s all.
”

“
Did you see anything?
”
asked Suzanne.
“
Anything at all?
”

Dil
’
s eyes were glassy.
“
I don
’
t know,
”
he whispered.
“
I
don
’
t think so.
”

“
But you came up here,
”
said Suzanne.
“
You were hanging around downtown, then you came up here.
”
She paused.
‘
To hide?
”

“
People were looking for me.
”

“
Do you know who?
”
she asked.

He shook his head again. No.

“
But they scared you.
”

“
They scared me,
”
Dil echoed. He gave a little shiver.
“
Sometimes it
’
s hard to remember things.
”

“
I understand,
”
said Suzanne.

She sat with him by the fire for a while. Talked to him softly, trying to pry a little more
information
from him.
Pretty much convinced that he couldn
’
t have had anything to do with Ozzie
’
s murder. And certainly not Bo Becker
’
s.

As Suzanne carefully cajoled Dil, he finally let loose with a jumbled, rambling explanation. She learned that
he
’
d seen combat in the Gulf War, returned home and gotten divorced, then fallen on tough times. He
’
d been treated for depression, held down menial jobs off and on, and then
landed in a halfway house for veterans somewhere in St. Louis. One day
—Suzanne wasn
’
t clear if it was two years ago or six years ago—Dil had finally walked away from
his halfway house and embarked on an aimless journey that
had led him from one town to another.

Dil had seemingly crisscrossed the country, occasion
ally circling back to the Midwest where he
’
d originally had
roots. Last week, when he
’
d randomly hit Kindred, some
spark of memory had ignited within his brain and he
’
d re
membered Walter. His long-ago buddy from the Gulf War.

But, of course, Walter wasn
’
t here anymore.

It
took a world of convincing to get Dil to come down the bluff with her. And then some more fast talking to put him
at ease with Baxter. But in the end, Dil relented. Drawn,
finally, by the promise of a cheeseburger and French fries.
And a motel room at the local Super 8.

“
Wait here,
”
Suzanne told Dil, pulling up in front of Schmitt
’
s Bar on Main Street and taking the car keys with
her, just in case.
“
I
’
ll be five minutes at most.
”
She held up a finger to Baxter.
“
You. Be good.
”
Then she hopped from
the car and scampered into the bar.

Schmitt
’
s was dim, semi-crowded, reeked of stale beer,
and easily cooked up the best burgers in town. Greasy beef
patties sizzled on a hot grill alongside piles of stringy, crunchy onions. Big, fat sesame seed buns steamed atop
the burgers. While she waited for her order, Suzanne chat
ted with the bartender,
an amiable coot who wore old-fash
ioned, round John Lennon glasses and sported a braided goatee. Freddy.

“
I understand there was quite an argument here last Fri
day night.
”

Freddy eyed her warily.
“
Says who?
”

“
Says Sheriff Doogie,
”
said Suzanne.
“
He said Ozzie Driesden and Earl Stensrud really got into it.
”

“
And then Ozzie got his self killed,
”
mused Freddy. He
peered quizzically at Suzanne.
“
The sheriff thinkin
’
Earl done it?
”

“
I think it crossed his mind,
”
said Suzanne.

“
Nah,
”
said Freddy.
“
That was just bar talk. You know how men are after a few drinks. Puffin
’
up their chests and
trying to outbrag each other.
”

“
Yeah, I know,
”
said Suzanne. Her eyes fixed on a sign
that hung behind the bar, next to a big taxidermied muskie.
It said: Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.

“
Say,
”
said Freddy, leaning forward.
“
You want a drink
or something? I make a pretty wicked gin fizz. You
ladies
always seem to appreciate a nice gin fizz.
”

“
No, thanks,
”
said Suzanne.
“
Maybe some other time.
”

Ten minutes later, Suzanne dropped Dil off at the Super
8. She registered as Suzanne Marley, her maiden name, and
paid cash. That way she could hopefully keep Dil hush-hush until she figured out what to do with him.

Standing outside room twelve, Dil clutched a backpack
and his white paper bag leaking grease and thanked her.
“
This is really nice of you, missus.
”

“
No problem,
”
she told him.
“
Listen, I
’
m gonna stop by tomorrow afternoon and we
’
re gonna figure out what to do
with you, okay?
”

Dil gave a faint smile and nodded.

“
Good,
”
said Suzanne.
“
So you just stay put.
”

“
Okay.
”

“
You promise?
”

“
Sure.
”

By
the time she finally rolled into her own driveway,
dragged herself into the shower, and let the hot water cascade down her body and ease the tension in her shoulders,
Suzanne was pretty much convinced that Anson Dillworth
wasn
’
t a viable suspect. Although Sheriff Doogie might disagree, Suzanne thought it was too far-fetched to view him as a wandering serial killer or even a spree killer. He was just too timid, too psychically wounded.

The question was, what to do with him?

“
What do you think, Bax?
”
Suzanne asked, pulling on
an oversized T-shirt and climbing into bed.

Baxter, who was already tucked into his expensive L.L. Bean dog bed, sighed deeply, essentially ignoring her.

So much for an outside opinion.

Settling back on her eiderdown pillow, Suzanne pulled
the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. But sleep was
slow in coming tonight, so she forced herself to make her mind go blank, and slowly chanted a sleepy time mantra
that
she
’
d adopted as her very own.
Cham-o-mile. Cham-o-mile.

And it worked. For a few hours.

Three o
’
clock brought Suzanne wide awake from a fragmented dream. She sat straight up in bed with a sharp gasp,
not knowing why, then thinking in her still sleep-fogged brain that she
’
d
heard
something. Had she? She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. And listened.

For some bizarre reason, the word
ghost
popped into her brain.

What? The ghost of
Ozzie Driesden come to call on me? Or the equally unhappy ghost of Bo Becker? No. No way,
silly girl.