Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (3 page)

Suzanne grabbed a plate of fresh-baked strawberry muffins from Petra and began stacking them in the glass pie saver on the counter. And then was struck by the sudden notion that Missy might have been lured to the cemetery. Had Drummond tricked her somehow? And then threatened her? Had Missy been forced to act in self-defense?

Suzanne was also burning with curiosity about how Drummond had died. Could it have been a heart attack? Or an epileptic seizure? Maybe his death wasn’t related to Missy at all. Maybe he’d been out jogging, minding his own business, and suffered some sort of desperate health crisis. Maybe, in his pain and delirium, Drummond had stumbled into the open grave and died. Or maybe he’d simply fallen into the grave and broken his neck. Could have happened.

Of course, Suzanne also knew it could have been a lot more sinister than that. Drummond could have been shot. Or strangled. Or something even worse. She also wondered if he’d died right there in the cemetery. Or had his body been transported and dumped there by some unknown monster?

These were the burning questions that whirled in her brain. The questions she wanted to discuss with Sheriff Doogie! These were the issues an autopsy would eventually reveal.

“Earth to Suzanne,” said Toni. “You okay, girlfriend?”

Suzanne gazed at Toni, who’d dashed behind the counter to brew a fresh pot of coffee. “I’ve been better.”

“You’re pretty worried about Missy, huh?”

“Afraid so,” said Suzanne. “Word is going to spread mighty fast about what happened to Drummond.”

“It already has,” said Toni. “Bob Krauser just asked me if I’d heard about it.”

“And what’d you tell him?”

“I played dumb,” said Toni, giving a wink. “I’m good at that.”

“Don’t say things like that,” said Suzanne. Sometimes Toni could be a little too self-deprecating for her own good. “You’re one of the smartest people I know. So please don’t put yourself down.”

“Thank you,” said Toni. “I know I’m not book smart, but I consider myself to be people smart. Being a waitress teaches you a lot about people’s moods, personalities, and quirks. It helps you home in on their vibe.”

“Digging into your stash of anecdotal evidence,” said Suzanne, “what does your inner vibe say about Lester Drummond?”

“Not too much,” said Toni. “But as for Missy, I’d say she’s got a boatload of trouble headed her way.”

WHEN
Sheriff Doogie showed up just before lunch, as Suzanne pretty much knew he would, she pounced on him.

“Drummond,” she said, before Doogie had even plunked his khaki-clad butt on a stool at the counter. “Are you any closer to figuring out how he died?”

“And good morning to you, too, Suzanne,” said Doogie. He looked haggard, and the outer corners of his eyes were crisscrossed with tension lines.

“Sorry,” Suzanne said. She realized she’d jumped on him like a rabid schnauzer. Grabbing a beige ceramic mug, she splashed in a generous serving of Kona coffee. She slid it in front of him, then set down a blue-checkered napkin and laid a knife, fork, and spoon on top of it. She pushed cream and sugar toward him and offered him her sweetest smile. “So?” She still wanted any nugget of information she could glean concerning Drummond.

Doogie glanced around the café. “Without giving away any state secrets,” he said, “it looks like Drummond might have had some sort of cardiac incident. Maybe a heart attack or stroke.”

“And you say that for what reason?” Suzanne asked, leaning her elbows on the counter as she looked at him.

“For one thing, he wasn’t shot, stabbed, or hanged,” said Doogie.

“You mean there weren’t any obvious injuries to his body.”

“I guess that’s what I meant. Although I didn’t examine him all that closely.”

Suzanne grabbed a sweet roll dappled with slivered almonds and cream cheese frosting and plunked it on a plate. She did it because that’s what she always did when Doogie came calling. Breakfast, lunch, or teatime, Doogie loved his sweet rolls.

“A cardiac incident, huh?” said Suzanne. She’d have to ask Sam about that. Being a doctor, he’d be able to explain the particulars. Such as, had it been ventricular fibrillation, coronary artery disease, or even a brain aneurism?

“We can’t start the autopsy until Saturday,” Doogie was saying. “Until Dr. Gordon shows up. Then we’ll know a lot more.”

“Let me ask you this,” said Suzanne. “Does Drummond’s death seem unusual to you? I mean, in your line of work you do see your fair share of strange and sudden deaths.”

“Ayuh,” said Doogie. “Far too many. Every time some poor soul gives up the ghost, the hue and cry is, ‘Call the sheriff, he’ll know what to do.’ Problem is, all I can ever really do, besides perform rudimentary CPR or apply a tourniquet, is call an ambulance or life support helicopter.”

“But Drummond always seemed to be in excellent physical shape,” Suzanne went on. “He prided himself on his strict physical fitness regimen. He worked out constantly at the Hard Body Gym. He made a point of it, even bragged about it. Plus, you’d see him jogging all around town.”

Doogie slurped some coffee and munched his sweet roll. “I hear you. He was an exercise fiend as well as a serious muscle builder.”

“And he was fairly food conscious,” Suzanne went on. “Whenever he ate here, he’d order vegetable soup with whole wheat crackers. Sometimes fish or chicken. But only if it was grilled, never fried.”

“Then
boom
,” said Doogie, widening his eyes and mouthing a kind of sound effect. “His ticker gives out and the guy keels over.” He stared at Suzanne. “Into a convenient open grave.” He hesitated. “Seems awfully suspicious to me.”

“It does to me, too,” said Suzanne.

“Which is why we need a trained forensic pathologist to give us his two cents’ worth,” said Doogie.

“I think that’s smart,” said Suzanne. “Heart attacks aren’t always the primary cause of death. Sometimes there’s an underlying cause.”

“You think?”

“Sure,” said Suzanne. “Like blocked arteries or even an allergic reaction.”

Doogie tapped his own expansive chest. “You ask me, longevity is all wrapped up in the genes that are passed down to you by your folks and the folks before them. If they lived to a ripe old age, chances are you will, too.”

“Maybe,” said Suzanne. “Although it helps to eat right and keep your stress level in check.” She kept talking because she was tap-dancing around the one question she really wanted to ask. And finally did. “So . . . what about Missy?”

“I’m gonna have a sit-down talk with that lady,” said Doogie. “I called her and she’s going to meet me at the Law Enforcement Center this afternoon. We’ll see if she can help fill in the blanks.”

“Please tell me you’ll treat her with kindness,” Suzanne urged.

“I’ll do my job,” said Doogie, but there was an edge to his voice. “I intend to ask her some very hard questions and in return I expect honest answers.”

“I’m sure you’ll get those answers.”

Toni grabbed a ketchup bottle, slid down the counter, and grinned at Doogie. “How’d it go this morning?” she asked. “After we left.”

“Don’t ask,” said Doogie, draining the last of his coffee.

“Ooh,” said Toni, “your face is turning green again. Must have been awful trying to pull Drummond out of that wet grave.”

“You don’t want to know,” said Doogie. Now he poked listlessly at what was left of his sweet roll. “We had to slide a backboard under him and then use the cemetery’s coffin lift.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to know,” said Suzanne, as Toni wandered off. She hesitated. “Any idea on how long Drummond had been down there?”

“Draper made that guesstimate of two to three hours.”

“That would mean Drummond died just before first light,” said Suzanne, thinking it over. “What on earth would he be doing in the cemetery at five in the morning? Plus, the time frame doesn’t jibe with Missy. We saw her leaving around seven-thirty.”

“But what time did she
get
there?” asked Doogie. “And how long did she stay?”

Suzanne was momentarily confused. “But I thought you said Drummond had a heart attack.”

“As you so helpfully pointed out, there are lots of ways to give someone a heart attack.”

“Oh my gosh!” said Suzanne, gazing into Doogie’s hard gray eyes. “You think Missy had a hand in Drummond’s death.” It was a statement, not a question.

“You have to admit, her presence at the cemetery paints a very suspicious picture.”

“Which I’m sure she can easily explain,” said Suzanne.

“You think so?” said Doogie.

No, but I hope so
, thought Suzanne.
I really, really hope so.

* * *

“OKAY,
I’ve got some lunch specials for you,” Petra called out.

Suzanne grabbed a piece of yellow chalk from a shelf behind the counter. “Shoot,” she said. Each day, once Petra had the menu worked out, it was dutifully printed on the chalkboard for all to see.

“Chicken meatloaf,” said Petra. “Although I suppose it’s not really meatloaf at all.”

“Chicken chickenloaf?” said Suzanne.

“Whatever,” said Petra. “Along with stuffed green pepper soup, egg salad sandwich, and salade Niçoise.”

“Is there gonna be pie?” Toni called from across the café, where she was setting out silverware.

“Rhubarb pie with vanilla ice cream,” said Petra.

Toni smiled as she rubbed a spoon against her apron. “I have just one word for that. Yum.”

Suzanne printed out the menu in block letters. And then, to better monetize the nearby cooler that held offerings brought in from some of their local vendors, she wrote down, Lemon Bread—$4.99 a loaf.

“We’ve got lemon bread?” asked Toni. She stared at the chalkboard as she stuck her hands into the back pockets of her skintight jeans.

“Our cooler is absolutely stuffed with food,” said Suzanne. “Shar Sandstrom brought in ten loaves of bread, Ellen Hardy some jars of pickles, and Dan Mullin brought in a couple dozen wheels of his fabulous Swiss cheese.”

The café’s wall phone shrilled just then and Toni reached to grab it. She listened for a couple of seconds then passed the phone to Suzanne. “It’s for you.” She fluttered her eyelids. “Lover boy.”

“Sam?” said Suzanne. She was surprised. Most mornings his schedule was jammed with patients at the Westvale Medical Clinic. She took the phone. Said, “Sam?” again, this time into the phone.

His voice came to her, smooth and mellow with a hint of huskiness. “I heard you were in on the big excitement this morning,” he said.

She was taken aback. “You’re talking about Lester Drummond? How do you know about that? How on earth did you find out?” She worked hard to keep her voice low and turned her back to the room.

“I’d say the entire town probably knows by now,” said Sam. “Plus, George Draper just called. He’s decided he wants Lester Drummond’s body transferred from his funeral home to the morgue at the hospital. So I’m on my way over there right now.”

“No kidding.”

“Yup. Draper pretty much gave me the whole story, blow by blow. Or at least as much as he knows.”

“Did he tell you we saw Missy at the cemetery?”

“He seemed to take particular delight in relating that part.”

“Obviously this is a very weird situation,” said Suzanne, blowing out a long breath and running a hand through her hair.

“I’d have to agree,” said Sam. “Although I can’t say Drummond’s death comes totally out of left field. From what I could see, he’d been aggressive and angry ever since he got fired from the prison.”

“And then he was turned down for that big job at the bank,” said Suzanne.

“Perhaps he was suffering from depression,” said Sam. “I suppose he could have overdosed on some sort of medication.”

“Was he taking something?” Suzanne asked suddenly. “Something strong?”

“No idea,” said Sam. “But if he was, he sure didn’t get his scrip from me.”

Suzanne hesitated. “What worries me most is that Doogie is going to be questioning Missy. He finds it exceedingly strange that she was at the cemetery this morning.”

“Well, so do I,” said Sam.

“When Toni and I ran into Missy . . .” Suzanne began. “Or rather, she almost ran into us . . . with her car. She looked absolutely terrified.” Suzanne knew her voice had risen an octave. Nowhere near hysterical, but edging into worry.

“Got any idea what she was fleeing from?”

“No. But I can take a wild guess.”

“I can hear the concern in your voice,” said Sam.

“Here’s the thing,” said Suzanne. “I think Doogie might be looking for a fall guy.”

“Or girl,” said Sam.

“But he’s dead wrong about Missy.”

Sam kept his voice neutral. “I’m sure he is.”

“Do you have to work tonight?” she asked. She suddenly needed him. Wanted desperately to talk to him, longed to feel his arms wrapped protectively around her body.

“I’m on call tonight,” he told her. “But tomorrow night, that’s reserved strictly for us. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

* * *

IF
Suzanne had a dollar for every time one of her lunch customers asked her about Lester Drummond, she would have been well on her way to a very comfortable retirement.

“Drummond’s death is all people seem to be talking about,” Toni hissed when they met behind the counter. “The news has spread like wildfire all over town.”

Suzanne nodded. “It sure has. Sam said they’re talking about it at the clinic, too.”

Toni cocked an eye toward a table of four older men. Two were dressed in overalls, while two wore T-shirts, jeans, and John Deere caps. “You see those guys over there?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Their theory is that Drummond got offed by some woman.”

“Why would they say that?” asked Suzanne.
Why indeed?

“They were kind of guffawing about the fact that he was such a notorious skirt chaser.”

“Well, he was,” said Suzanne. “And clearly lots of people knew that.”

“Only problem is,” said Toni, in an ominous tone, “the most recent skirt he chased belonged to Missy.”

“I’m sure she has a perfectly good explanation for why she was in the cemetery this morning,” said Suzanne.

“Let’s
hope
she does,” said Toni.

* * *

AT
one-thirty that afternoon, Suzanne was standing in line at the bank. She’d been so busy she hadn’t had time to deposit all their receipts from the previous week. So here she was, with a bulging blue plastic envelope stuffed with dog-eared ones, tens, and twenties as well as assorted checks.

“Hey, Suzanne,” said the teller. She was a plump woman by the name of Jana Riesgraff. Jana had worked at the local bank for twenty years and probably should have been named as the new bank president, instead of the ineffectual young man who was in that position now. “I heard you were the one who found Lester Drummond this morning.”

“Does everybody know about that?” Suzanne asked.

Jana nodded as she quickly counted bills, punched in numbers on her machine, and handed Suzanne a receipt. “Pretty much.” Jana grinned. “That’s the beauty of a small town.”

“Or the
problem
with it,” Suzanne murmured to herself as she turned to leave. But just as she got to the door, Havis Newton, the brand-new director at the Historical Society, flagged her down. As Suzanne could have predicted, Havis was also aflutter over Drummond’s death in the cemetery.

“Fancy seeing
you
,” said Havis, putting more meaning into her words than she ordinarily would. She was a young woman, just a few years out of graduate school. With her solemn eyes, straight hair, and no-nonsense horn-rimmed glasses, she was taking her job as seriously as if she’d just been appointed executive director of the Metropolitan Museum in New York.

Suzanne sighed inwardly. It was probably going to be like this for a few days. Until the shock of Drummond’s death wore off, or his killer was apprehended. Or both.

“How are you doing, Havis?” Suzanne asked.

Havis just shook her head, looking exasperated. “What can I say? My plate is full.”

Suzanne wasn’t sure what that meant, so she said, “Is the rededication ceremony going on as planned tomorrow morning? In light of what happened at the cemetery?” She didn’t want to talk about the fact that she’d been there. That would all come out soon enough.

“Yes, it’s still happening,” said Havis. “But I fear this strange death or accident or whatever it was may have frightened people. That it might keep them away.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” said Suzanne. “For one thing, folks in Kindred are a curious lot. If anything, a mysterious death might actually bring even more people out.”