Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (21 page)

“Oh my gosh!” said Suzanne. She yanked on Toni’s arm, hurrying her toward the car. “There’s been an accident! And Doogie’s hurt bad!”

* * *

THEY
threw themselves into Suzanne’s car and, within seconds, were careening their way to the hospital.

“What happened? What’s the story?” Toni asked anxiously.

“I don’t know,” said Suzanne, her teeth chattering. “Sam just said Doogie was in some sort of accident.”

“Wow,” said Toni. “That’s weird.”

Arriving at the hospital, Suzanne parked in the lot closest to the ER. “C’mon,” she said to Toni as she jumped out. “Let’s hurry up and find Sam.”

But Suzanne and Toni were abruptly halted at the door leading into the ER. It would appear hospital security was on high alert.

“Hold on, ladies,” said a gruff-looking guard in a maroon uniform. “Nobody’s allowed in this way. We’ve got police business going on.”

“I know that!” said Suzanne. “That’s precisely why we’re here. We got a call that Sheriff Doogie was hurt!”

The guard was unfazed. “Sorry, there’s still no access. But if you want to go around to the front . . .”

Before Suzanne could launch a protest, Sam suddenly appeared. Wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a white coat, he’d obviously just been called in from home.

“Sam!” said Suzanne. “We came as fast as we could!”

Sam elbowed his way past the guard and gave Suzanne a hug. “Hey you,” he said.

“What’s going on?” asked Toni, dancing around. “Is Doogie okay?”

Sam broke off his embrace and said, “Sheriff Doogie has two cracked ribs and a concussion.” His voice was calm and authoritative, as if this were an everyday routine for him. “They’re taking him up for a head CT scan shortly.”

“But is he gonna be okay?” asked Toni.

“He’ll be in some pain for a while,” said Sam. “But he’ll recover, for sure.”

Still stunned by this news, Suzanne’s mind was working overtime, thinking: Who? Why? How? “You said on the phone that he was sideswiped?”

“That’s what he told the EMTs,” replied Sam. “Apparently, he was getting out of his car to help somebody change a tire or something to that effect.”

Suzanne instantly thought about the yellow car—Missy’s car—that had almost sideswiped her. Had it been the same car? Was Missy really the killer, trying desperately to knock Doogie out of action? Were all these things connected in some terrible, twisted way?

“Was Doogie able to give a description of the car or the driver?” Suzanne asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, Deputy Driscoll tried to question Doogie, but he was too out of it. Tomorrow, though. I expect he’ll be more coherent tomorrow.”

“Is there anything we can do?” asked Suzanne. For some reason she felt guilty, sad, and anxious, all rolled into one.

Sam furrowed his brow. “What you can do is be careful,” he told them. “Whatever’s going on in Kindred is serious business. All of these things can’t just be coincidences, so I want you two to really watch your backs.”

Suzanne gulped.
Imagine if he knew where we’d just been and what we were up to!
She wasn’t going to blab it to him right now, that’s for sure.

“Maybe I should stay overnight at your place?” said Toni, glancing at Suzanne.

“That’s a smart idea,” said Sam. “And be sure to keep those guard dogs nice and close.”

“Sure,” said Suzanne. “Of course we will.”

“Anything else we can do?” asked Toni.

“The hospital staff has things under control,” said Sam. “But maybe you could say a little prayer? Doogie can use all the help he can get.”

Couldn’t we all?
thought Suzanne.

SUZANNE’S
first thought when she sprang out of bed on Tuesday morning was to check on Sheriff Doogie. How was he? What kind of night did he have? And who in the name of creation had sideswiped the sheriff?

All night she’d tossed and turned, worrying, praying that he’d make a full and speedy recovery with no complications. So after feeding the dogs, downing a cup of industrial-strength coffee, and getting dressed, she bid good-bye to Toni and rushed off to the hospital. Rain was still pelting down from a gray sky and her windshield wipers squeaked loudly, barely able to hold their own against the downpour. And when she pulled into the hospital parking lot, she found it was not only half flooded but almost completely filled with cars!

Did everyone choose this day to get severely ill or visit a loved one?

After circling the packed lot three times, she finally inched into a spot that was barely legal. With her raincoat abruptly thrown on, she stepped out into what felt like hurricane-force winds and, with her umbrella flapping like a crazed bat, rushed for the front door.

Stopping at the reception desk, feeling like she’d just endured her washing machine’s spin cycle, Suzanne was told that Doogie had been moved into room 432, a private room. But the volunteers who staffed the desk could offer no word on how he was doing. They didn’t know if he was awake or still unconscious.

Feeling anxious, Suzanne took the elevator to the fourth floor. Then she raced down the hall past bustling nurses, nervous-looking visitors, and breakfast carts that smelled vaguely of scrambled eggs and toast. Arriving at Doogie’s room, she hesitated at the closed door and drew a sharp, shaky breath. Then she knocked softly. There was no answer. Was he being seen by a doctor or nurse? Was he maybe undergoing some kind of procedure? Taking another deep breath and hoping for the best, Suzanne grasped the handle and pushed the door open.

The room was in semidarkness and Doogie was alone, lying in his hospital bed absolutely motionless. He was surrounded by beeping, blinking monitors and looked pale and unnaturally white beneath a mound of blankets. An IV was hooked up to his arm and led to a hanging bag filled with clear liquid, while another cord—a pulse oximeter—was clasped to his finger. Suzanne took a few baby steps into the room.

Is he sleeping?
Suzanne wondered.
Or still unconscious?

She glanced around for a nurse, but none of them were nearby.

There was only one way to find out.

Suzanne tiptoed slowly to Doogie’s bedside, never taking her eyes off his face. After a few seconds, she grasped the metal rails of his bed and whispered, “Sheriff?” She leaned forward slightly, hoping to catch his answer, but there was nothing. No movement, no response. “Doogie,” she said, a little louder. “How are you feeling?”

This time his eyelids fluttered ever so slightly.

Suzanne reached over and touched an index finger to the chubby hand that lay on top of the blanket. “It’s Suzanne,” she said gently. “I just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

Doogie’s hand twitched slightly. He gave a long moan and, with what seemed like tremendous effort on his part, partially opened his eyes. He held her gaze for a couple of seconds then his eyes closed again.

“Hey,” Suzanne said, trying to sound upbeat but really wanting to burst into tears. “Looks like you’re doing much better.” The words felt dry and empty in the back of her throat.

Doogie tried to open his eyes again but seemed overcome with sleep. Then his lips moved soundlessly.

“What?” said Suzanne, leaning closer. Was he asking for something? Trying to tell her something?

“It’s . . .” Doogie began. Then he stopped abruptly.

“It’s what?” Suzanne prompted.

“Hard to . . . Drugs,” he finally whispered.

“I know it’s difficult,” she said. “And the drugs they gave you aren’t making it any better.” She patted his hand. “Better that you just rest for now. I’ll stop by later to see how you’re doing.” She waited for his response, any response at all, but Doogie seemed to have retreated into the netherworld of sleep.

Suzanne backed away from the bed and grabbed a tissue. Dabbing at her eyes, she turned and left the room.

Back out in the hallway, it was still a hub of activity. Laundry carts rumbled past, patients in wheelchairs were being taken to labs, nurses snapped out orders. And, in all of this chaos, there was one bright ray of sunshine for Suzanne. Because Sam was suddenly striding down the hallway toward her, looking fresh and crisp and efficient. In the middle of her sadness, he seemed a vision of hope.

“Did he say anything to you?” were Sam’s first words. A shock of brown hair fell over his forehead and his eyes sparkled. Dressed in blue scrubs and a white coat, he clutched a stack of clipboards. Obviously making early morning rounds.

Suzanne shook her head. “Not a thing. He just mumbled something about drugs.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, he still has some heavy drugs on board. We gave him several meds last night to reduce cranial pressure, and then Versed this morning for sedation. But I think he’s kind of fighting them, as many patients do.”

“When do you think Doogie’s going to be fully conscious?” Suzanne asked. “When do you think he’ll be able to talk?”

“It’s hard to say,” said Sam. “And, truth be told, we prefer to keep him a little groggy and as quiet as possible for now.”

“So he still hasn’t said anything about what happened last night?”

“No, and he won’t be able to for a while.”

Suzanne sighed. “I’m really worried about him.”

“I know you are, sweetheart,” said Sam, touching her arm. “But Sheriff Doogie has a very strong constitution. His respiration and blood pressure are good, his pulse ox is right up there. Really, he’s probably going to make a full recovery.”

“Then why is he just lying there?” said Suzanne, sniffling again.

“Because he was struck on the head and it’s going to take a little time for his brain to recover. But it will recover.
He
will recover. Just at his own pace.”

“Thank goodness,” said Suzanne. She was nearly close to tears.

Sam grasped her by the hand and gently but firmly pulled her down the hallway. He stopped suddenly, opened a door, and pulled her into a small, dimly lit room. Suzanne peered around. The place was stocked with towels and cleaning supplies. She whirled around to face him and suddenly found herself being held protectively in his arms.

“You worry too much,” Sam told her.

“Doogie’s really going to be fine?” Suzanne was amazed by her own depth of emotion.

“Yes, of course he is. You trust me, don’t you?”

“I trust you implicitly,” she said. “I’d trust you with my life.”

“Well, there you go,” said Sam. He kissed her on the forehead. “Just like I trust you. I’ll tell you what—if there’s any change, any change at all, I’ll call and give you a heads-up. Okay? Will that set your mind at ease?”

Suzanne looked up at him and nodded. “It’s a start. And I’m definitely going to stop back here again this afternoon.”

“That’s good,” said Sam. “I’m sure Sheriff Doogie will appreciate that.”

“Maybe not if he can’t hear me,” said Suzanne.

“We don’t know that for a fact,” said Sam. “I’ve seen lots of patients who’ve been placed in drug-induced comas following a heart attack or major trauma. And the gentle words or just the presence of a loved one has aided greatly in their recovery.”

Suzanne sniffled. “Even though the people in comas couldn’t talk to their visitors or see them?”

“The thing is . . . people in comas or deep sedation seem to know
instinctively
that someone’s there, loving them, praying for them, encouraging them. They can sense other people’s presence. You’d be amazed.”

“That makes me feel a lot better,” said Suzanne.

Sam leaned down and gave her another kiss. “So cheer up, okay? Hey, did you forget I’m taking tomorrow afternoon off?”

“For trout fishing,” said Suzanne, finally managing a smile.

“That’s right,” said Sam. “I get off at two and then we head out to the wilds of Logan County, just you and me. I can’t wait to fish that little creek you told me about.”

“Rush Creek,” said Suzanne. “Back in the really hilly section of the county.”

“And it’s no doubt teeming with rainbows and brookies.” Sam cocked his wrist sharply and made a fly-casting gesture. “I’ve got my bamboo rod primed and ready to go.”

“If it doesn’t rain,” said Suzanne.

“You’ve never fished in the rain?” said Sam, feigning surprise. “C’mon, be a sport. That’s the best time to fish!”

* * *

ON
her way out of the hospital, Suzanne ran into Deputy Driscoll. Young, lanky, and earnest-looking, wearing his uniform and hat, Driscoll was known for doing the administrative grunt work in the department.

“Oh, hey,” Driscoll said when he spotted Suzanne in the lobby. “Have you been upstairs to see the sheriff?”

Suzanne nodded. “I was just in his room, yes. But he’s barely awake. In fact, Dr. Hazelet said Doogie’s been given some fairly heavy medication so he might not wake up for a while.”

“Jeez,” said Driscoll, digesting this information, shaking his head. “That’s tough. It’s not what I was hoping for, not what any of us were hoping for.”

“How are
you
faring in all of this?” Suzanne asked. He seemed to be the next in line after Doogie. But even to her untrained eye, Deputy Driscoll looked scared and nervous. Not exactly the picture of authority.

“Well, I don’t mind telling you I’m worried,” Driscoll admitted. “I’ve always looked to Sheriff Doogie to lead the way on things. He’s been on the job a long time, while most of the other deputies are fairly new. I’ve been here two years, but the other guys are basically green recruits.”

“You’re saying they lack confidence,” said Suzanne. “And experience.”

“I guess you could say that,” said Driscoll.

Suzanne reach a hand out and touched his arm. “Don’t worry. I know the investigation has landed squarely on your shoulders, but you’ve been well trained. You’re smart and resourceful and I’m sure Sheriff Doogie has every confidence in you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Driscoll, tipping his hat to her. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

“I want to ask you about a couple of things,” said Suzanne.

“Shoot,” said Driscoll.

“Will you keep an eye on Allan Sharp?”

Driscoll squinted at her. “You mean that slimy lawyer? The one who hangs out with the mayor?”

Suzanne stifled a giggle. “That’s right. I have the strangest feeling he’s somehow involved in all this.”

“You mean in Lester Drummond’s death?” said Driscoll.

“Yes. Did Sheriff Doogie mention anything about it?”

Driscoll shifted from one foot to the other. “Somewhat.”

“So he sees him as a suspect, too?”

“More like a person of interest,” said Driscoll.

“Okay,” said Suzanne. She knew that was cop-speak for suspect. “So he is on your radar. And what about Missy Langston?”

Now Driscoll looked a little uncomfortable. “What about her?”

“I take it the search is still on?”

“It’s our first priority,” said Driscoll. Now his words seemed to carry a harder edge.

Suzanne studied his grim expression. Then a look of recognition dawned on her face. “Oh no,” she said finally. “You think Missy might have engineered Doogie’s accident last night!”

Driscoll’s gaze never broke from hers. “It’s certainly possible, ma’am,” he said diplomatically.

“No,” said Suzanne. “It really isn’t.”

The deputy edged away from her. “Count on us to be on the job, ma’am,” he told her. “Count on us to find her.”

I sincerely hope not
, thought Suzanne
. Because we are not on the same page with this. Not at all.

* * *

CONSUMED
with worry over Missy as well as Doogie, Suzanne knew she wasn’t even halfway through her busy morning. Braving the rain once again, she guided her car over to the east side of town where station WLGN was located in a bare-bones cinder-block building with a transmitter tower on top.

Breezing past the reception desk, brushing raindrops from her coat, Suzanne made a beeline for Studio B. And just as she was about to scoot inside, Paula Patterson emerged from the office across the hall.

“Oh my gosh,” said Paula, giving her a big smile. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. That you’d gotten cold feet or had a change of heart.”

“I had to stop by the hospital first,” Suzanne explained.

Paula’s face fell. “Oh no. Who . . . ?”

“You mean you haven’t heard?” said Suzanne.

Paula shook her head. “No. What happened? I’ve been stuck in a recording session and haven’t had a chance to swing by the newsroom yet.”

“Sheriff Doogie was involved in some kind of hit-and-run accident last night.”

“For goodness’ sake,” said Paula, looking concerned. “Was he injured? Is he okay?”

“He’s in the hospital,” said Suzanne as calmly as she could. “Still mostly unconscious. But a lot of that’s because of the drugs they gave him.”

“The poor man,” said Paula.

“So other than the fact that Doogie got hit and the unknown driver drove away, the answer is he’s probably going to be fine,” said Suzanne, trying to appear upbeat but feeling empty inside. “At least that’s Dr. Hazelet’s opinion.”

“
Your
Dr. Hazelet,” said Paula, smiling. “God bless him.”

Amen
, Suzanne thought to herself.

“So,” said Paula, switching gears, “are you ready to handle a quick interview?”

“I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” said Suzanne.
Which is basically not ready at all.

But that wasn’t about to stop the efficient and ever-cheerful Paula. She bustled Suzanne into a small studio with low lighting, baffled walls, and a large, blinking console. Once the two women were seated in comfy chairs adjacent to one another, Paula plopped a set of headphones on Suzanne’s head. Wiley VonBank, one of the sound engineers, quickly appeared and adjusted Suzanne’s microphone, then did a voice level check. After that she sat there, nervously twining her feet, hoping she wouldn’t come off like some kind of ditz.