Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (16 page)

Then she decided that whatever threads she threw on would work just fine. In this case a navy T-shirt, blue jeans, and short black leather boots.

Back downstairs, Suzanne fed Baxter and Scruff, let them romp around outside in the backyard for ten minutes, and bribed them with jerky treats to get them back inside. Their paws were mud-caked because of the previous day’s rain, so she got bowls of warm water then knelt down on the floor and sat back on her heels.

“I know this looks like I’m ready to do a Japanese tea ceremony,” she told Baxter, “but I really need to dip and scrub each of your paws. You, too, Scruffer.”

At eight o’clock, Suzanne turned off all the lights in the house and stood in the entryway, checking her wallet for money. Two twenties—that ought to do it. She glanced idly out the narrow window next to the front door and watched a car slide slowly up to the curb.

Is that
Toni?

Peering out her front window into the dusk, Suzanne squinted to see who it might be. But it was so dark she couldn’t really tell. The car sat there, the engine rumbling, the lights turned off. Hesitating, her heart suddenly thumping in her chest, Suzanne watched the car idle at the curb. It sat there for another thirty seconds or so—then abruptly pulled away.

Well
, Suzanne thought,
it’s obviously not Toni. But who then? Was it a case of mistaken address? Or was the lone person sitting in that car somehow connected to all the craziness that’s been going on?

Or
—gulp—
could someone be stalking me? I know I shouldn’t be jumping to crazy-quick conclusions, but I can’t help it!

Feeling more than a little jittery now, Suzanne craned her neck to make sure the car had vanished down the street. Then she stepped gingerly outside to wait on her front steps, hoping Toni would hurry along soon.

She heard Toni’s car before she saw it—a rattling, shaking cacophony that sounded like a medieval instrument of torture. Then a horrible-looking cat-urine-yellow car pulled to the curb and shuddered to a stop. Suzanne turned around to her front door, locked it securely with her key, and skittered down to Toni’s car.

“This isn’t what you usually drive,” were Suzanne’s first words as she opened the creaky passenger door and clambered in.

“Ah, you know Junior,” said Toni, with a wave of her hand and a big smile, almost as big as the reddish blond clip-on hairpiece on top of her head. “He’s always stealing pieces and parts to make do.”

“And he jacked
your
car?”

“Just for a couple of days.”

“And this is what you get in trade?” said Suzanne, thinking Toni had gotten the raw end of the deal.

“Hey,” said Toni, “I’m just lucky this junker runs.”

“What is this thing, anyway?” Suzanne had a vague memory of this particular make of car being popular when she was in high school.

“An eighty-one Plymouth Fury.”

“Didn’t Detroit stop making these babies?” Suzanne asked.

“Yup. Hence its enormous appeal to Junior.”

“How many cars does Junior actually own?” asked Suzanne, fishing for the seat belt. This car was so ancient the seat belts were the old-fashioned kind that strapped across your lap.

“At least a dozen,” said Toni as they screeched away from the curb. “But I’m not sure Junior has a pink slip on every one.” She was struggling to find second gear and couldn’t seem to come up with it. The car grunted and groaned until Toni finally revved the engine and popped it into third gear.

“So this is like Frankencar,” said Suzanne. “Rebuilt with random pieces.”

“Good one,” Toni chuckled.

“What time does the race start?” Suzanne asked. “Or, rather, Junior’s demolition event?”

Toni grimaced. “I think Eve of Destruction starts around eight-thirty. But I got a call from Junior a little while ago telling me he might be a little late. He had a flat tire.”

“On his race car?” said Suzanne. She decided this might be a piece of good luck. A reprieve of sorts.

“Not on his car,” said Toni. “On his house.”

Suzanne’s head spun sideways so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you don’t know about that, do you?” Toni chuckled as she checked her rearview mirror. “Junior bought himself a used double-wide trailer a couple weeks back.”

“No kidding,” said Suzanne. “So that’s where he’s living?” She knew he wasn’t with Toni. Toni had kicked him out more than a year ago.

“You got it,” said Toni as they careened around a corner, a cloud of blue exhaust belching from the tailpipe, laying a smoke screen worthy of James Bond.

“So I guess that means that Junior’s the newest resident of the Essex Motor Park,” Suzanne mused. She tried to picture Junior fitting in there with the retired bridge and bowling folks. “Isn’t that place kind of ritzy for Junior? I hear they even have a swimming pool.”

Toni snorted. “Hah! Junior should be so lucky. No, his trailer’s parked illegally out on Revere Road. Just down from the town dump.”

“Well, that’s, um”—Suzanne searched for an appropriate word—“convenient.”

TWENTY
minutes later they pulled into the parking lot at the Golden Springs Speedway. The place was teeming with tricked-out pickup trucks, souped-up cars, and classic muscle cars. From the scream of engines and the roar of the crowd, it was obvious the races were well under way.

These people are all gearheads, Suzanne thought to herself as she looked around at the crowd. So what was she doing here? A dyed-in-the-wool . . . um . . . bookhead? Egghead? She decided there really wasn’t a toned-down, normal equivalent to gearhead.

“Here we are,” Toni crowed as she pulled into a parking space. “Take a gander at all the denim tuxedos!”

“Denim . . . what?”

“You know, denim jackets and jeans,” said Toni.

“Okay,” said Suzanne as she climbed out. Suddenly she was feeling
over
dressed. “And we’re going . . . where?”

“Over this way,” said Toni, tugging at her arm. “No grandstand for us tonight. We gotta hook up with Junior in the racers’ lot!”

When the two women reached a large, flat, weedy lot out back, Junior was just pulling in. Driving a beat-up pickup truck, he was towing his demolition derby car on a rickety wooden trailer.

Junior grinned when he saw them. “Glad you guys made it. I can really use your help!”

“What can we do?” asked Suzanne. On the walk back here, she’d made up her mind to remain positive. She’d come here to lend a hand for Toni’s sake, and that’s exactly what she was going to do. No judgment, no snide remarks. Just a good time with one of her BFFs, even if the venue was a bit on the wild side.

“Suzanne, grab those cans of motor oil and brake fluid,” said Junior. He was dressed in saggy jeans and a ripped Pennzoil T-shirt. “And Toni, if you can get that spool of electrical wire. Oh, and the wrenches and socket set, too.”

While they gathered equipment, Junior backed his car down off the trailer. “Wiggle in if you want,” he invited them. “You girls are skinny enough to squeeze in through the back windows.”

“That’s okay,” said Suzanne. “We’ll just follow you over.”

“Don’t get lost!” warned Junior.

How could they? As they huffed their way along behind Junior’s car, the noise from the track got even more deafening. It started out as a throbbing rumble then built to the ear-piercing, bone-shaking roar of a freight train.

“Is it always this loud?” Suzanne mouthed to Toni, thinking this was eardrum-splitting territory.

Toni nodded. “That’s because the Thundercars are racing now,” she said. “Their souped-up engines are crazy loud. Some of the fans even wear earplugs, like they do at rock concerts.”

Once they were in the pits, lined up alongside a dozen or so other demolition derby cars, Suzanne found herself growing strangely fascinated by this race-night spectacle. Brightly painted and decaled cars, so vivid they looked like neon-colored parakeets, thundered past them on the high-banked asphalt track. People cheered, the jacked-up crowd seemed lost in an endless human wave, and loudspeakers blared with a fuzzy announcer’s voice that went virtually ignored. It was an amalgam of carnival, pageantry, and theater all rolled into one.

“What do you think?” Toni asked, a gleam in her eye.

“It’s crazy,” said Suzanne. “This is practically . . . epic!”

“Hey!” called Junior. “I could use a little help over here.”

They got busy then, arranging gear, sorting out Junior’s flame-retardant jacket and jumpsuit, and watching breathlessly as two Thundercars dueled their way to the finish line while a great roar went up from the crowd.

“That’s it,” said Toni. “There’s the checkered flag. That means our race is next.” She was quivering like a Chihuahua caught in a snowstorm.

“We got time,” said Junior. “They gotta award prizes first.” He pointed a greasy finger toward a small stage in front of the grandstand. “See? They’ve even got tire models here tonight!”

Suzanne peered across the hazy track and saw two women dressed in tight white tank tops, impossibly short leather skirts, and white go-go boots, and decided those must be the tire models.

“That’s big-time,” Junior assured her as he undid a latch and flipped up his hood. “Whenever companies send tire models to these races, you know there’s decent prize money involved.”

Toni handed Junior a can of motor oil and watched him pour it, the engine gulping hungrily. “Might have a leak,” said Junior. “And Toni, grab me a ratchet, will you? I wanna tighten up the screws on this gasket.”

She grabbed a tool and handed it to him.

“That’s a wrench,” said Junior. “I need a ratchet.”

“Um . . .” said Toni, rattling around in the tool kit. “I don’t think we brought those.”

“You
forgot
my ratchet set?” barked Junior. He ran his fingers through his dark, unruly hair and breathed out a stream of air. “Ah, man, that means they’re sitting in the back of my truck, in the parking lot.”

“I’ll run back and get your tools,” Suzanne volunteered. “No problem.”

“Just the ratchet set,” said Junior.

“Thanks, girlfriend,” said Toni, as Junior made a whirring motion with his finger, indicating he wanted her to peel off a strip of electrical tape.

Suzanne dodged through the waiting fleet of demolition derby cars and headed back out to the racers’ lot. It was full-on dark now, with gray, bubbly-looking clouds hanging low in the sky, making the atmosphere feel more than a little oppressive. Suzanne wondered if the soft purple evenings of early summer were ever going to arrive. Then she decided she’d better worry about that later and kick it into high gear if she wanted to get Junior’s tools back to him.

When she reached the truck, she found the ratchet set right where Junior said it would be. Lying in the truck bed. Suzanne stuck a toe into the wheel rim and found a toehold on a bolt. Then she hoisted herself up so she could lean over and grab it.

Just as her fingers made contract with the plastic box that held the tools, she heard the sharp clunk of metal. Grabbing the toolbox, she scrambled down and whirled around. Her eyes searched the dark. And saw . . . absolutely nothing.

But I heard something, didn’t I?

Suzanne stood in the dry grass, trying to relegate the dull sounds of cheering and rumbling engines to background noise. She tuned in to her immediate environment of dry grass and parked trucks, listening for the smallest sound.

The sudden ring of her cell phone shattered the silence and almost scared the daylights out of her!

She fumbled in her pocket for it, pressed the On button, and managed a squeaky, “Hello?”

It was Sam.

“Hey,” he said. “You sound funny.”

“I’m at the car races with Toni and Junior.”

“Car races?”

“I’ll explain later. What’s up?”

“Suzanne . . . there’s something weird going on that I have to tell you about.”

Suzanne was instantly on alert. “Sam, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Not over the phone. When I get to your place, okay?”

“Sure.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours, okay? Come over then.”

“Got it,” said Sam.

Suzanne stood there, nerves amped, suddenly wondering what was on Sam’s mind. Had he discovered something during this second and final day of Lester Drummond’s autopsy? Or was something else going on? If so—what?

She gulped, blew out a glut of air, and heard . . . another clunk.

There was that sound again! Almost as if a metal crowbar had ticked against the side of a truck.

Someone else come back to grab some gear?

Shoulders stiff, head cocked, Suzanne stood stock-still. Then, almost out of nowhere, a puff of wind arose and tiny bits of dust blew up into her face. She wrinkled her nose to keep from sneezing and wiped at her eyes. All the while she continued to listen.

Someone had crept back to grab some gear, she decided. Or . . . hold on a minute . . . what if someone had followed her back to this seemingly deserted parking lot?

But why?

Her thoughts drifted back to the car that had pulled up outside her house tonight. Dark car, no lights. Who had it been? And could they have followed her here?

Gripping the socket set tightly against her chest, Suzanne took off running and didn’t look back.

* * *

WEARING
his flame-retardant jacket and gripping a toothpick between his teeth, Junior grabbed the ratchet set from Suzanne’s hands and set to work.

“Did I miss anything?” Suzanne asked.

Toni looked worried. “They just called the demolition cars onto the track.”

“So when does this crazy derby officially start?” asked Suzanne.

Toni looked at her watch. “Like, in two minutes.” She glanced up at Suzanne and noticed her friend’s shakiness. “Hey, are you okay?”

Suzanne nodded. “Fine.” This wasn’t the time or place to explain her sudden paranoia.

“Done!” said Junior. He snatched up his helmet and plopped it onto his head.

Toni squinted at him. “Is that regulation?”

Junior spat out his toothpick and tapped a finger against his helmet. “High school football.”

“Dear Lord,” said Toni as Junior slithered into his car and settled into the driver’s seat. “Buckle up tight!”

“Don’t worry,” said Junior as he turned the starter. There was a clicking sound, a loud sputter, and a series of nasty backfires. Then Junior was put-putting his way into the center of the track.

“Be safe!” Suzanne called. But who was she kidding, really? Was anybody safe in this wonked-out demolition derby that actually went by the name Eve of Destruction?

Thirty seconds later a starter gun exploded and the demolition derby began in earnest. Suzanne decided it was like watching the Keystone Cops, only with hideous cars. A yellow and black car that looked like an angry beetle took aim and promptly smashed into a white car. The beetle car shivered, shook, backed up twenty feet, then crashed into a blue car. It was chaos, pandemonium, and flying auto parts. She also noticed there were a few cars whizzing around the outer perimeter, wisely staying out of the fray.

“There’s Junior!” cried Toni. “Oh jeez, he’s sandbagging it.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Suzanne.

“He’s trying to avoid getting hit, hoping he can keep going until the end of the race.”

“That’s good, huh?”

“No, that’s bad,” said Toni. “The judges might disqualify him for not participating.”

“We can only hope,” said Suzanne.

But Junior wasn’t out of the action for long. A red Chevy with yellow flames painted on both sides was suddenly dogging him. Junior zigged and zagged and spun and turned, but he couldn’t shake the aggressive Chevy. Finally, as Junior was charging down the straightaway in front of the grandstand, the red Chevy powered straight at him and struck him broadside. Junior’s driver’s side door crumpled like a piece of tinfoil and a tire flew off the rim!

“Come on, Junior, move it!” Toni screamed. “Get your butt outta there!”

But try as he might, Junior couldn’t get his car started again. The Chevy had struck a death blow. Junior’s engine was shot and he was out of the race.

“Now what?” asked Suzanne. “Junior just sits there like a squished bug until every last car is out of commission?”

Toni looked morose. “Those are the rules. In this derby anyway.”

“But isn’t he a sitting duck?”

“Aw,” said Toni, “the other drivers don’t care about him anymore.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Toni frowned. “I didn’t want Junior to enter, but now that he’s out of the money I feel kind of sad for him.” She shook her head and said, “I guess that’s why they call it the pits.”

* * *

SAM
was waiting in his car, parked neatly at the curb, when Suzanne arrived back home an hour later.

“Lucky you,” said Toni, pumping the brakes on her hunk of junk. “You’ll have sweet dreams tonight!” She giggled as Suzanne jumped out of her car.

“Thanks! See you tomorrow.”

Suzanne sped toward Sam as he stepped out of his car. “What’s up?” she asked.

He put his arms around her and gave her a quick kiss. “Better we should go inside.”

Suzanne shook her head to clear it.
Right.
She was so wound up over Missy’s arrest, her argument with Doogie, Junior’s stupid contest, and the scare she’d had in the parking lot that she wasn’t processing things very well.

“Did you hear about Missy?” Suzanne asked once they were in the kitchen and the dogs had been let out into the backyard. She stood at the sink, washing her hands and drying them with a crisp dish towel.

Sam shook his head. “No. What?”

Over glasses of Cabernet, sitting at the counter, she filled him in on the sad events of the day, especially her news about Missy.

“Arrested her,” said Sam, whistling. “Wow. I didn’t see that one coming.”

“I think I kind of did,” said Suzanne. “Even though I tried to push it to the back of my brain.” She took a sip of wine for courage. “I’m going to post bail for her tomorrow. And please don’t tell me I shouldn’t, because my mind’s already made up.”

Sam lifted both hands in a show of no protest. “Hey, you’ll get no argument from me.”

“If the tables were turned, she’d do the same for me in a heartbeat.”

“If the tables were turned,” said Sam, “I’d beat her to it.”

Suzanne smiled and touched his cheek. “Thank you.” The flutter in her stomach seemed to subside a little. “Now, what were you all fired up about?”

“Dr. Gordon finished the Drummond autopsy this afternoon.”

Uh-oh, here it comes
,
Suzanne thought to herself. “And let me guess—he was finally able to determine the cause of death?”

“First things first,” said Sam. “What he discovered were additional hemorrhages on Drummond’s heart and lungs.”

“Which means what?” said Suzanne. “Remember, please, I never went to medical school.”

“Internal hemorrhages like that are usually caused by stress-induced arrhythmia.”

Suzanne peered at him. “Drummond had a heart attack?”

Sam continued. “There was no indication of that, but his breathing was definitely compromised and the rhythm of his heartbeat was either slowed considerably or sped up. Which meant his heart couldn’t pump enough blood to his body.”