Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (18 page)

* * *

THE
first one in for lunch that day was Dale Huffington.

“You’re getting to be a regular,” Suzanne told him.

“Ah, it’s this crazy shift I’m on.”

“So you’re ready for breakfast? Or something heavier?” Suzanne asked.

Dale shrugged. “Maybe just a tea and scone.” He patted his stomach. “I’m cutting back.”

“I can see that,” she said, as the door opened and customers began to trickle in.

Suzanne hastily began taking orders, poured coffee, and hyped the specials. And, wouldn’t you know it, right at the peak of the lunch hour, Jake Gantz came ambling in with another painting.

“Toni?” called Suzanne. She nodded toward Jake as she refilled Dale’s teacup. “Can you check him in?”

“Will do,” said Toni, scurrying off.

Chewing his last bite of scone, Dale gazed across the café at Jake. “I know that guy,” Dale said to Suzanne. “He was at Jasper Creek for a while.”

Suzanne decided to play it cool. Maybe she could pick up some information. “That’s Jake Gantz. He’s a pretty decent painter.”

“That a fact?”

“Looks like he brought us another donation for our Hearts and Crafts Show. So . . . do you know what Jake was in for?”

Dale hunched forward and stuck his elbows on the counter. “Jake’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box. Basically, he’s a Gulf War vet who never plugged back into society when he came home.”

“Unfortunately, I think that happens a lot,” said Suzanne. “But what exactly did Jake do to end up in prison?”

“It’s a sad story,” said Dale.

“I’ve got a full box of Kleenex,” said Suzanne.

“As best as I recall,” said Dale, clearing his throat, “he was hanging with a bunch of guys one night—guys he met in a bar somewhere who started pumping him for war stories. You know, military wannabes who’d never think of enlisting but could spend all night listening to tales about night patrols, ammo loads, and AK-47s. Anyway, it turns out these yahoos popped into the Quick Stop over in Jessup to grab a pack of Marlboros. And while they were getting their smokes they decided to grab a little unauthorized pocket money out of the cash register. Poor Jake is sitting in the backseat minding his own business when they came running out with a handful of cash and two twelve-packs of Budweiser. Long story short, they all got caught and soldier boy over there was sentenced to eight months at Jasper Creek.”

“Didn’t he have a lawyer?” asked Suzanne. “I mean, it sounds like there were extenuating circumstances.”

Dale tilted his head. “Probably just a first-year public defender. And, last time I checked, being dumb as a sack of hammers doesn’t count as an extenuating circumstance.”

“Maybe Jake isn’t dumb,” said Suzanne. “Maybe he’s just . . . numb.” She knew Petra had volunteered with a couple of Vietnam veteran organizations and that a few of those poor men were
still
traumatized, fifty-some years later.

Toni came hurrying back to the counter. “Okeydoke,” she told Suzanne. “All checked in and good to go.”

“Great,” said Suzanne, as two more newcomers settled at the counter. One of them was Allan Sharp, the lawyer they’d had the contentious run-in with on Saturday night. Then again, Sharp always acted contentious.

“Howdy-do,” Toni greeted the two men. Sharp was seated next to Dale, the other man farther down the counter. She gave them both ice water and coffee, then set about taking orders. When Toni got to Allan Sharp he was his usual brusque self.

“Just a bowl of soup,” Sharp told her.

“You don’t want to hear the specials?” said Toni. “We’ve got egg salad sandwiches plus chicken and waffles.”

“Chicken and waffles?” said Sharp. “That’s an unusual combination.”

“It’s Southern,” said Toni. “Kind of a comfort food thing. Besides, Allan, it’s always good to get a fresh perspective on different cuisines.”

“I prefer my own perspective,” said Sharp. “Just the basics, nothing too wild or crazy.”

“Whadya think?” asked Toni, sidling closer to him. “You think we’re the kind of café that serves crap like deep-fried jalapeno poppers? Junk food that comes frozen from a restaurant supply company in fifty-pound sacks?”

“Uh, okay,” said Sharp, drawing back a little.

“This is a
real
café,” said Toni. “Didn’t you ever hear of the locavore movement?”

“You’re the one who’s loco,” snarled Sharp.

* * *

SUZANNE
wondered if today’s lunch crowd would ever end as customers continued to pour in. It was great for the bottom line, but she was beginning to feel a bit frazzled. She took another dozen orders, shoved them through the pass-through to Petra, and drew a deep breath. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee and practically inhaled it.
I need a hit of caffeine
, she decided. She stood there, gulping her coffee, trying to muster her energy. And as she did, became aware that Allan Sharp was saying something to Dale about Lester Drummond.

What?

Suzanne edged closer to the two men, hoping to catch Sharp’s words. Instead, Sharp muttered a few more words, chuckled nastily, then did a mock wipe of his brow.

“I guess so,” said Dale, sounding agreeable.

Then Sharp stood up, tossed a five-dollar bill on the counter, and quickly left.

Suzanne glanced at Dale, who was hitching up his belt, also ready to depart, and said, “Um, what was
that
all about?” She was beginning to realize that Dale was a bit of a gossip.

“More drama and intrigue,” said Dale, smiling and shaking his head. “It never seems to stop.”

“Do enlighten,” said Suzanne.

“Here’s the thing,” said Dale, in a conspiratorial tone. “It seems that Allan Sharp and two other prison board members were named in a three-million-dollar lawsuit over Lester Drummond’s firing. Now, with Drummond dead, Sharp is off the hook. No longer liable. End of story.”

“Just like that,” said Suzanne.

“Like water off a duck’s back,” said Dale. “A lucky duck.”

“Maybe,” said Suzanne. But she was instantly suspicious. Because if Allan Sharp was now free and clear of a multi-million-dollar lawsuit—and openly celebrating it—didn’t that make him a suspect, too?

ONCE
lunch was finished and every last bit of Toni’s dump cake had been polished off, the floodgates seemed to open for donations to the Hearts and Crafts Show. At least a dozen or so artists popped in to drop off contributions.

“This is fantastic,” Suzanne told Agnes Bennett, who served as part-time organist at Hope Church. She was gazing with an appreciative eye at the canvases in front of her. “I had no idea you were such a skilled painter.”

“I’m not really,” said Agnes. “I think of myself more as a dabbler. I just like the way colored paint looks on canvas.”

But Suzanne had to disagree about the dabbling. Because Agnes’s landscape painting of nearby Bluff Creek Park, done in muted browns and greens with sharp, clean brushstrokes, perfectly captured the majesty of the rocks and towering cliffs so familiar to everyone in Kindred.

“I’m going to hang this one up right away,” Suzanne told her. “And everything else, too. It’ll give our teatime customers a real treat while they’re munching their goodies.”

“And get everyone thinking about placing their bids,” said Agnes, smiling.

“Absolutely,” said Suzanne.

She hopped into overdrive then, removing painted plates and metal signs from the café walls, working feverishly to hang up the paintings and quilts and knitted shawls and scarves. She even moved a few of her precious ceramic chickens off the lower shelves so she could carefully display memory boxes, velvet handbags, and beaded jewelry. Sometimes, Suzanne decided, even chickens had to yield the floor.

* * *

MID-AFTERNOON,
pleased that the Cackleberry Club had taken on the patina of a real-life art gallery, Suzanne ducked into the cozy kitchen for a five-minute break.

“Perfect timing!” said Petra. “You want a raspberry scone? I just baked a batch. Teatime is busier than usual for a Monday.”

“I’ll take a scone,” said Suzanne.

“With a heaping of Devonshire cream?” asked Petra.

Suzanne held up a hand. “Hold the cream. I’m good with just a plain scone.”

“No wonder you stay so thin,” said Petra. “You never
eat
!”

The swinging door suddenly banged open and Toni came in.

“Hey!” she enthused. “I love what’s going on out there with all the artwork. It looks just like the Louver.”

Suzanne and Petra exchanged glances.

“Excuse me?” said Suzanne. She wasn’t sure she’d heard Toni correctly.

“You know,” said Toni. “The Louver. That fancy French museum. In Paris. Where the
Mona Lisa
lives.”

“You mean the Louvre,” said Petra, struggling to keep a straight face.

Toni looked suddenly stung. “Louver, Louvre, what’s the difference? Our café is suddenly filled with art!”

“It’s filled with something else, too,” Petra muttered.

Toni jabbed a finger at her. “I heard that, lady. And don’t think I don’t know you were poking fun at my French.”

“Why, Toni,” said Petra, suddenly apologetic, “I didn’t know you studied French in school.”

Toni cocked her head to one side and grinned. “Sure did. French kissing.”

When Petra looked surprised, Toni giggled wickedly and said, “Ha-ha. Gotcha!”

“Oh you!” shrilled Petra, as Toni’s slim form slipped through the swinging door.

* * *

SUZANNE
was pouring cups of Keemun tea for two customers when Doogie came stomping in through the front door. His face was beet red and his sparse gray hair stuck up like somebody had rubbed a balloon against the top of his head.

“Where is she?” Doogie thundered. “Is she here?”

“Is who here?” asked Suzanne, glancing over at him. What on earth was going on? Why was Doogie so hot and bothered? And then it dawned on her, just as Doogie shouted . . .

“Missy!” The name came flying angrily out of Doogie’s mouth. “She’s disappeared! Gone. Her car’s gone, too, and she’s not answering her phone!”

Suzanne settled her teapot onto a tea warmer and flew across to room to intercept him.

Before he could say anything more, she grabbed Doogie’s sleeve and yanked him into the Book Nook, which was no easy feat since he was almost double her size. But she was anxious to get him away from whatever prying eyes and interested ears might be waiting in the restaurant. Amazingly, he took the hint and followed her.

“Are you sure she’s disappeared?” Suzanne asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Doogie. He was hopping mad and ready to blow a gasket.

Missy’s disappearance, if that’s what it really was, was unsettling news for Suzanne
. Because now it looks as if Missy really does have something to hide.
Her brain was turning somersaults as she tried to process everything Doogie’s message implied.

“She’s probably just scared,” Suzanne said finally, scrambling to be logical and pacify Doogie at the same time. “That’s why she’s probably hiding out somewhere. Maybe at a friend’s house or something?”

“She hasn’t been seen around town since she left the Law Enforcement Center this morning with you,” said Doogie, his voice shaking with anger. “And in my book that makes her a fugitive!”

“She’s nothing of the . . .” Suzanne began.

“And I don’t want to hear any excuses from you.” Doogie waved a stubby index finger in warning.

“Okay,” said Suzanne. Truth be told, she was more than a little shaken by all of this. Missy had been instructed to stay put, and now it looked as if she might have slipped out of town. What could it mean? Suzanne really didn’t want to go there.

“Would it make you feel any better if I went looking for her?” she asked, having a sudden brainstorm. “Maybe I could try to find her, figure out where she went.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t know how to do my job?” said Doogie. Now he turned suspicious and defensive.

“Not at all,” said Suzanne, trying to stay calm. “I know you have your hands full, so I’m simply trying to help out.”

“You can pitch in,” said Doogie, “just as long as you don’t interfere with the law.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Suzanne.

Doogie cocked a wary eye at her.

“Look, I want this mystery solved just as much as you do,” said Suzanne. “Missy’s a friend and I’d like to bring this to a close once and for all. Do you think I enjoy having my friend in the middle of a big mess like this? Well, the answer is no. So I don’t see any harm if I poke around town and try to find her.”

“I’m warning you, don’t step on my toes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Because this is my jurisdiction.”

“Clearly it is.”

Doogie let out a long, heavy sigh and hitched up his utility belt. With the gun, flashlight, nightstick, and radio he wore on it, the whole getup made him look like a human Swiss Army knife.

Satisfied that Doogie’s famously red-hot temper had been dialed back a few notches, Suzanne said, “Look, why don’t we go back out to the café and get you a nice cup of chamomile tea.”
The better to calm you down.

“Coffee’s better,” Doogie muttered as he followed her out, his footsteps heavy and loud.

“Coffee then,” said Suzanne. She led Doogie to the counter where he settled his considerable bulk onto his favorite stool. “And maybe a scone?” she added.

He shook his head. “Make it a donut. They’re better than those dainty little tea pastries you serve.”

Suzanne turned slightly so he wouldn’t see her eye roll. She reached into the glass pie saver and selected a large donut covered with chocolate frosting and colored sprinkles. After a moment’s hesitation, she added a second donut to his plate. She placed the pastries in front of him, poured him a fresh cup of coffee, and said, “There you are. Donuts with your favorite sprinkles.”

“Jimmies,” Doogie said with relish as he took a big bite. A miniature avalanche of red, pink, and white sprinkles coursed down the front of his khaki shirt. He didn’t care.

“Good?” said Suzanne.

“Guuh,” Doogie replied, attempting to talk and chew at the same time.

He took a sip of coffee, and when he’d polished off the first donut and was tearing into his second, Suzanne decided it was safe to broach a couple of other subjects with him.

“Sheriff,” she said, “Toni and I went to the cemetery walk on Saturday night.”

“Uh-huh,” said Doogie, still focusing on his donut.

“And we came across something kind of strange. Something we thought we should run past you.”

Doogie stopped chewing. “What are you talking about?”

Suzanne reached back to the counter and grabbed the parchment note they had plucked from the filled-in grave. She placed it on the counter and slid it toward him.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked warily, swallowing hard.

“It’s a note,” said Suzanne. “A note that somebody left on top of the grave where Lester Drummond was found.”

“Huh?” Doogie wiped his sticky fingers on a napkin, dabbed at his mouth, and picked up the note. His brows beetled together as he read the mournful words printed on it—
And he slipped sadly away.

“What’s it supposed to mean?” said Doogie.

“That’s what we were wondering,” said Suzanne. “That’s why I thought we’d show it to you. We don’t have a clue.”

“You say this was left on a grave?”

“Not just any grave. The one where Drummond died. The one that got filled in.”

“Huh,” Doogie said again. “This is pretty dang strange.” His flat eyes stared at Suzanne. “You didn’t see who left it?”

“No.”

“You didn’t notice anybody messing around there?”

“Not really,” said Suzanne.

“You mind if I keep this?” asked Doogie.

“I was hoping you would,” said Suzanne. She thought for a moment. “It would be interesting if it could be scanned for the original fingerprints or maybe for the type of paper it is. Or if a handwriting expert looked at it, that would be good, too.”

“Maybe,” said Doogie. “Of course, this could mean absolutely nothing.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“It could have been written by anybody. The whole thing could be totally random.”

Suzanne gazed at him. “You think so?”

Now it was Doogie’s turn to mull things over. “Maybe . . . not. Drummond wasn’t all that well liked around town. And this note is what you might call a . . . warm sentiment.”

“There’s something else I need to run by you,” said Suzanne.

He looked at her. “You’re just bursting with interesting bits of information, aren’t you?”

“Now that you mention it, yes,” said Suzanne. She looked around the café to make sure the customers were fine and no one needed her. Gazing back at Doogie, she said, “Allan Sharp came in for lunch today.”

Doogie nodded. “Yeah?”

“And I kind of overheard him talking to Dale Huffington.”

Doogie continued to stare at her.

“I hadn’t realized it until Sharp mentioned it, but apparently he was named in a three-million-dollar lawsuit that Drummond brought against three of the prison board members.”

“You mean Drummond was suing because he was fired?” said Doogie.

“That’s right,” said Suzanne. “But it was a civil lawsuit, against Sharp and two other board members. So it wasn’t exactly public knowledge.”

“First I’ve heard of this,” said Doogie, scratching his big head.

“Anyway,” Suzanne continued as Toni slid behind her with a tray of dirty dishes, “Sharp seemed greatly relieved.”

“Because Drummond is dead, so the suit will be dropped,” said Doogie.

“That’s what I took away from it.”

“So you’re asking me what?” said Doogie. “To take a closer look at Allan Sharp?”

Suzanne met his gaze square on. “If you could do that,” she said, “it would be great.”

“It would be great,” echoed Toni.

“I suppose I could do that,” said Doogie. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to let Missy Langston off the hook.”

“Is Missy . . .” Toni began. But Suzanne waved her off.

“I hear you, Sheriff,” said Suzanne.

The coffee and donuts he’d eaten seemed to pacify Doogie for the moment, but he was definitely still in a grousing mood. When his cell phone rang, he answered promptly—“Sheriff here”—and responded to whoever was on the other end with monosyllabic grunts and harrumphs. He didn’t look one bit happy. The call ended when he muttered, “To top it off, I gotta take the cruiser in ’cause the brakes feel mushy.”

When he hung up, Toni sidled up next to him. “I couldn’t help but overhear . . . Why don’t you let Junior take a look at your car?”

Doogie held up a big paw in protest. “I don’t need that overage juvenile delinquent tinkering with my official vehicle.” He pronounced it “ve-hi-cle,” as most folks in law enforcement did. “Besides, it’s county property and we’ve got a contract with a
legitimate
garage.”

“Aw, come on,” Toni urged. “Give Junior a chance. He’s a crackerjack mechanic.”

“Huh,” said Doogie as he slid off his stool. “It’s more like he found his auto repair certificate in a Cracker Jack box!”

“Sticks and stones!” Toni called out in Doogie’s considerable wake.

“Didn’t Junior attend the vo-tech school over in Jessup?” Suzanne asked as she and Toni watched Doogie leave. She’d always figured that Junior, with his keen love of cars, had done fairly well there.

“He was at the top of his class,” said Toni. “Of course, his attendance was court remanded.”

Suzanne frowned. “Meaning . . .”

“That the judge ordered Junior to learn a meaningful trade or go to the workhouse.”

“Was Junior ever
in
the workhouse?” asked Suzanne.

Toni shrugged her shoulders. “Years ago. Only problem was, it never stuck.” The corners of her mouth crooked up in a mischievous grin. “Because Junior’s never done an honest day’s work in his life!”

* * *

WHEN
Suzanne told Toni and Petra about Missy’s sudden disappearance they were appalled.

“I was wondering what Doogie was yelling about,” said Petra.

“Where could she be?” Toni asked. “Do you think Missy might have fled the state?”

“No idea,” said Suzanne, feeling a little heartsick. Fresh in her mind were her words admonishing Missy not to do anything foolish, like leave town. And now it looked like—not four hours later—Missy had gone and done exactly that.