Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (7 page)

Toni looked suddenly intrigued. “Sounds sort of spooky.”

“Everything sounds spooky to you,” said Petra. She slipped out of her loafers and into a pair of size-ten green Crocs, what she called her cookin’ shoes. “I’m afraid you have a profound sense of the macabre, Toni.”

“What’s macabre?” said Toni. She thought for a minute, then snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute, it’s that island right by Hong Kong, right?”

“That’s Macao,” said Suzanne politely. “Macabre means gruesome or ghastly.”

Toni considered this. “I guess that might describe me. Since I kind of groove on scary movies like
Halloween
and
Final Destination
.”

“Dreadful fare,” shuddered Petra.

“What about the
Twilight
movies?” said Toni. “At least there’s a little romance tossed in among the vampires and werewolves.”

“Doubtful,” said Petra.

“Suzanne,” said Toni, a little jacked up now, “let’s go to the candlelight walk tomorrow night. Okay?”

But Suzanne wasn’t all that anxious to make yet another trip to the cemetery. And weren’t her nerves frazzled enough?

“Come on,” said Toni, sensing her mood and trying to cajole an answer out of her. “It’ll be fun.”

“Maybe,” said Suzanne, caving a bit, wondering how much fun it would be to visit graves in flickering candlelight. “I suppose we could.”

“Suzanne,” said Petra, “better do the chalkboard.”

“What’s on tap for lunch?” asked Toni.

“Let’s see,” said Petra. “Pulled pork sandwiches, personal pan pizza with pancetta and caramelized onions, and egg salad sandwiches. And maybe, if I hustle my buns, I can manage a couple pans of cranberry muffins.”

* * *

AT
exactly twelve noon, amid the clanking of dishes and clacking of silverware, Sheriff Doogie shuffled through the front door. He gazed around with his cool law enforcement gaze, gave his sidearm a perfunctory pat, then ambled over to the counter and slid onto the end seat. It was Doogie’s regular seat, the one with the permanent tilt to it.

“How’s it going?” Suzanne asked, looking him straight in the eye. “The investigation, I mean.”

“Cooking along,” said Doogie. “I got that list of recent parolees that we’re trying to run down. Those who still reside in the area, that is.”

“And how many would that be?” Suzanne poured Doogie a piping-hot cup of coffee and slid it across the counter.

Doogie winked one eye shut, thinking. “Looking at the surrounding counties, probably . . . a half dozen?”

“So not too difficult to follow up on.”

“Of course, the list could always turn out to be a dead end,” said Doogie, pulling his cup closer.

“Is there anything else on your radar?” Suzanne asked.

Doogie sucked air in through his front teeth. “There’s a halfway house over in Cornucopia.”

“No kidding.” That was news to her. “With ex-cons?”

“That would be the general idea.”

“You think one of them could have killed Drummond?” she said, working hard to keep her voice low. I mean, are they dangerous guys?”

“There hasn’t been any trouble up until now,” said Doogie. “But . . .”

“But you never know,” said Suzanne, interrupting him. “So you have to check it out.”

“Correct.”

Suzanne decided this was as good a time as any to bring up her conversation with Dale. “Hey, one of the prison guards was in here this morning, after his shift ended. Dale Huffington?”

Doogie took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Sure, I know Huff.”

“Anyway,” said Suzanne, “Dale happened to mention a guy by the name of Karl Studer. Are you familiar with him?”

Doogie stared blankly at her. “Can’t quite place him.”

“Apparently Studer sells firewood and has been known to poach a few deer.”

A look of distaste suddenly dawned on Doogie’s doughy face. “Oh jeez,
that
son of a gun!”

“Apparently Studer’s son is currently incarcerated at the prison,” said Suzanne. “And, according to Dale, there was no love lost between Karl Studer and Lester Drummond.”

“Huh,” said Doogie.

“And Studer lives close to the cemetery,” said Suzanne, pretty much repeating word for word what Dale had told her. She was leaning on the counter now, her elbows squarely placed.

“And this is all Huff’s theory?” said Doogie.

“It is, but I think it could hold water.”

“Sounds like a stretch,” said Doogie. “But . . . it
might
be worth a look-see.”

“I thought it would tweak your interest,” said Suzanne. She glanced over at her chalkboard. “If you’re hungry, and I’m guessing you are, we’ve got pulled pork sandwiches, little pizzas, and egg salad today. But the pulled pork’s really the best.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have.”

“Got it,” she said. And then added, “I talked to Missy last night.”

“Yeah?” Doogie shot her a wary look.

“She told me she thought she was responding to a call from one of the women from Harmony House.”

“Already spoke to their director,” said Doogie. “Nobody there called.”

“How would their director know that?” asked Suzanne.

“Because the phone is closely monitored,” said Doogie.

“But someone could have . . .”

“Someone didn’t,” said Doogie. “But just to make sure, we’ve subpoenaed all their phone records.” He smiled coldly at Suzanne. “No stone unturned.”

SUZANNE
was standing behind the counter, fixing a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich for a take-out order when Gene Gandle walked in. Gene was the
Bugle
’s intrepid reporter, really their only reporter, who was always on the hunt for a scoop. Tall and gangly, with a square head that seemed to bob on his thin stalk of a neck, Gene slumped at the counter, staring at her as she spread mustard onto the ham sandwich. When Suzanne didn’t acknowledge him, Gandle said in a mournful voice, “I feel like a total doofus.”

“What’s wrong now, Gene?” asked Suzanne. Gene was always at the Cackleberry Club complaining about something or other. He fancied himself Kindred’s answer to Woodward and Bernstein.

Gandle threw up his hands. “Are you kidding me? I just missed the story of the century!”

“What are you talking about?” said Suzanne.

Did something major happen that she wasn’t aware of? Like the start of World War III? Suzanne sliced the sandwich and slid it into a plastic bag. Then she popped that into a brown paper bag along with a small bag of barbecue-flavored chips.

“I’m talking about Lester Drummond!” Gandle said with great exasperation.

From her few but intense dealings with Gene Gandle, Suzanne keenly suspected him to be a wonked-out drama queen. “You really think Drummond compares to Pearl Harbor or the Kennedy assassination?” she asked. “No, of course it doesn’t. Drummond’s death, sad as it may be, strange as the circumstances are, is just a small-town incident.”

But Gandle was clearly reveling in his own pity party. “Why does the major news in this town always happen on a Thursday, just hours
after
our paper comes out?”

“I think people do it to spite you, Gene,” Suzanne said, tongue planted firmly in cheek. “Just so you won’t get your scoop. Everyone holds off on car crashes, arrests, drug busts, and all the really grisly news until Thursday afternoon.”

“Now you’re mocking me,” said Gandle.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Suzanne.
Hee hee.

“And you were the one who
found
Lester Drummond! You could have at least
called
me. Given me a heads-up. Throw me a bone of some kind.”

“It wasn’t the first thing that came to mind,” said Suzanne. “Besides, I didn’t know you had your own personal tip line.”

“Face it,” Gandle sighed. “I’m just unlucky. Maybe it’s because I’m a Gemini. There’s too much duality in my life.”

“Maybe it’s because you wear too many hats at the paper,” suggested Suzanne. “What with reporting hog prices, softball scores, and holes in one at the country club, handling ad sales, and everything else.”

Gandle’s face suddenly brightened at her mention of ad sales. “Why don’t you place an ad in the
Bugle
, Suzanne? I’d cut you a real sweetheart of a deal.” He pulled a calculator from his shirt pocket and began punching numbers like crazy. Suzanne decided Gene must be figuring his commission.

“I could let you have a quarter page for the price of an eighth of a page. For around the price of . . .” His fingers worked overtime as he punched more numbers. “Two hundred bucks.”

“Look around, Gene,” said Suzanne. “The Cackleberry Club has plenty of customers. Running an ad isn’t going to bring in any more. Besides, I’m already writing a tea column for Laura.” Laura Benchley was the editor and publisher of the
Bugle
. Gene’s boss. “So I already get a byline and a little blurb about afternoon tea service.”

“I happen to know you’re late with your column,” said Gandle, in a self-induced snit now. “Weren’t you supposed to turn it in last week?”

“I had two bridal showers and a catering gig at the library last week,” said Suzanne. “But I’ll get to it. In fact, I did get to it. My column’s pretty much written.”

“It’s a matter of honoring deadlines, Suzanne,” said Gandle, tapping an index finger against the counter. “Journalistic integrity. That’s what counts!”

“Gene,” said Suzanne, “it’s not like you work for the
Washington Post.
And covering high school baseball scores and hog reports isn’t going to win you a Pulitzer.”

Gandle leaned back on his stool and puffed out his chest. “Oh yeah? Well, I’ll have you know, Miss Smarty Pants, that I have a rather juicy interview scheduled for later today.”

Suzanne’s antennae perked up. “What are you talking about, Gene? With who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Gandle chortled.

“I bet you’re talking to Doogie. Getting all the facts about Drummond’s murder.” She regretted being so flippant with him earlier. It was fun, but not exactly a charitable thing to do.

Gandle flapped a hand disdainfully. “No, no. Not Doogie.” A glint suddenly appeared in his wary eyes. “Guess again.”

“I have no idea.”

Gandle leaned forward over the counter and said, in a stage whisper, “I’m going to interview Lester Drummond’s ex-wife.”

Suzanne’s eyebrows rose in twin arcs at this bombshell. “Seriously? I had no idea Lester Drummond even had an ex-wife.”

This was news. Really big news.

Gandle saw her surprised reaction and smiled a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. “Oh yeah. I’m gonna get the scoop.”

Suzanne waited a couple of beats, then said, “So who is this woman? Tell me more.”

“Her name is Deanna Drummond,” said Gandle, pronouncing each syllable very deliberately.

“And she’s here right now, in town? Are you telling me the poor woman’s come to plan her ex-husband’s funeral? And you’re going to harass her?”

Gandle looked thoughtful. “Not exactly. From what I understand, Deanna Drummond’s been living here for the past couple of weeks. Staying in Drummond’s house.” The corners of Gandle’s mouth pulled up in a smarmy smile. “Cohabiting.”

“Does Sheriff Doogie know about this ex-wife?” asked Suzanne.

“I have no idea. But I imagine you’re going to blab it to him,” said Gandle, suddenly sounding cross.

“Well, somebody should tell him,” said Suzanne.

“And why would that be?” asked Gandle.

“Because . . .” said Suzanne. She thought for a few moments. “She could be a suspect.”

* * *

SMACK
dab in the middle of lunch, just when Suzanne was balancing a tray with three orders and a fresh pot of coffee, the phone rang.

“Get that, will you?” Suzanne called to Toni.

Toni grabbed the wall phone off the hook, listened for a few seconds, and aimed a finger at Suzanne. “It’s for you, cookie.”

“Give me a minute,” said Suzanne. She delivered the luncheons to table five, poured a refill for the adjacent table, and handed the pot to Kit. Then she pirouetted across the café and snatched up the phone. “’Lo,” she said. “Suzanne here.”

“Sweetheart,” came Sam’s low purr.

A broad smile lit up Suzanne’s face. “Hey! What’s up?”

“I’ve got car trouble,” said Sam. “Beamer’s in the garage for the rest of the day, so I was wondering if you could pick me up after work and give me a lift?”

“Of course I can. What’s wrong with your car?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think the carburetor has to be retooled in Stuttgart or something like that.”

“But it’ll be ready tonight,” said Suzanne.

“Fingers crossed,” said Sam. He chuckled. “Or maybe not.”

* * *

PETRA
was sitting on a bench in the kitchen, wiggling her toes and eating a slice of pizza, when she said, “You know, we have to get organized for our Hearts and Crafts Show next week.”

The Hearts and Crafts Show was one of Suzanne’s brainstorms. They were asking local artists and crafters to donate handmade goods to be displayed, gallery style, at the Cackleberry Club for a week and sold through a silent auction. All the proceeds would go to the local food bank.

“I thought we were all set,” said Toni. She glanced sharply at Suzanne. “Aren’t we all set?”

“Our posters have been hanging in every storefront window in Kindred for a month now,” said Suzanne. “So I’m expecting a fair number of donations. Oh, and the show’s been mentioned in the
Bugle
, too.”

“Did you ask Paula Patterson to mention it on her morning radio show?” asked Petra.

“Yes, I did,” said Suzanne. “She promised to really talk it up.”

“That’s good, huh?” said Toni.

“That’s great,” said Suzanne. “Anyway, I’ve got the donation forms all printed and ready and we’ve got drop-off times for the artwork scheduled for tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday.”

Petra slapped her hands against her knees and stood up. “Okay, good. So we’re further along than I thought. Now if we can pull off the Historical Society tea on Sunday and this art show next week I can die happy.”

“Don’t talk old,” said Toni.

“Then I won’t die, I’ll just go into hibernation like a bear. Man, they have it made. Bears get to eat themselves stupid and then take a nice long sleep for six months.”

“Guys,” said Suzanne, aiming to redirect the conversation, “have either of you heard anything about Deanna Drummond?” She’d been turning her conversation with Gene Gandle over and over in her mind and decided she had to mention it.

Toni grabbed the last slice of pizza. “What’s a Deanna Drummond?”

“Apparently she’s Lester Drummond’s ex-wife,” said Suzanne. “And she’s here in town.”

“Get
outta
town!” said Toni. “There’s an ex-wife in the picture?”

“I suppose she’s here for the funeral?” said Petra.

“Noooo,” said Suzanne tantalizingly. “According to Gene Gandle, the ex-wife has been living at Drummond’s place for the past couple of weeks.”

“You mean they were going to get back together?” said Toni, going pop-eyed now. “Wow, it sounds like the plot of a soap opera. Star-crossed exes about to reunite—then POW! Tragedy strikes!”

“With an imagination that vivid, I think you could
write
soap operas,” said Petra. She pulled on an oven mitt and peeked inside her oven. “Mmmmn.”

But Toni was still demanding the 411 on Deanna Drummond. “So what else do you know about this Deanna person?” she asked Suzanne. “Come on, girlfriend! Start dishing some dirt!”

“I just told you everything I know,” said Suzanne, suddenly aware of a loud rumbling coming from their back parking lot.

“Which wasn’t very much,” said Toni.

“What
is
that awful noise?” asked Petra. “It sounds like some kind of heavy machinery.”

Toni pressed her nose to the window. “Yee gads, it’s Junior.”

“Did he steal a tractor or something?” asked Petra as the noise got louder. “Or a forklift?”

“Naw, he’s just driving some rotten old blue car,” said Toni. “Probably something he found in
Auto Trader
.” Then she did a kind of double take and said, “Oh shoot!”

“What’s wrong?” said Suzanne.

“I hope that isn’t what I think it is!” said Toni, grabbing Suzanne’s hand and pulling her out the back door.

Junior Garrett grinned when he saw them. He was nothing less than a vision in saggy blue jeans, white T-shirt, and scuffed black motorcycle boots. He swept his grease-stained trucker cap off his head and said, “Afternoon, ladies.”

“What. On. Earth,” said Suzanne. She turned an inquiring gaze at what almost passed for an automobile.

“Isn’t she something?” said Junior. He was practically bursting with pride. “My blue beater. I’ve been working on this for quite some time.” His hand coasted along the front fender in a loving caress. “I plan to enter it in the demolition derby Sunday night!”

Suzanne and Toni stared in horror at Junior’s car. It was an old Chevy Impala, but that’s where the similarity to a street-legal car ended. The blue paint was mostly chipped or worn off, leaving the car with a fine patina of rust. The front bumper was reinforced with what looked like heavy-duty bedsprings, the windshield as well as side and rear windows had been chipped out, and the roof was punched in.

“You can’t race that car in a demolition derby,” said Suzanne. “You’ll be disqualified on the basis that it’s
already
demolished.”

“It’s a total wreck,” agreed Toni.

“Naw,” said Junior. “What you see here is a car that’s been stripped down to its bare essentials and customized with special reinforcements.” He grabbed a metal strut that had been welded from the driver’s side door to the roof. “See? Genuine steel rebar.”

Suzanne thought the strut looked suspiciously like a metal crowbar.

“And the doors have been welded shut, too,” Junior continued. “For added strength and safety.”

“Safety?” squeaked Toni.

“How on earth do you get in and out if you can’t open the doors?” Suzanne asked. She knew she shouldn’t indulge Junior with such questions, but, like a mongoose drawn to the cobra, she was fascinated by his demented dreams of speedway glory.

“Simple as pie,” said Junior, giving his hips a little shake. “I just shimmy through the open windows. See, that’s the beauty of my unibody modifications. There are no pesky doors to come unhinged or fly off at critical moments during the race.”

“You’re the one who’s unhinged,” cried Toni, who couldn’t stand it anymore. “Junior, you’re gonna
kill
yourself!”

“If you flame out,” said Suzanne, “there’s absolutely no way for you to escape!”

Junior reached inside the car and pointed to a small red fire extinguisher that had been crudely wired to the dashboard. “Then I just pull that thing out and extinguish the flames.”

Toni shook her head. “In between the rolling of the car, the crunching of metal, and flames singeing your hair and flesh, do you really believe you’ll have the wherewithal to operate a fire extinguisher?”

“Sure,” said Junior. “What’s the big deal?”

“Junior,” said Toni, practically hyperventilating now, “you barely have the wherewithal to operate a pencil sharpener!”

Stung by her words, Junior’s face darkened. “You see why we can’t make a go of our marriage?” he cried. “You’re constantly picking at me and finding fault! It’s ‘Junior, this won’t work’ or ‘Junior, you can’t do that.’” He shrugged his forelock off his face. “Sometimes it feels like I can’t do anything right!”

“That’s because you
can’t
!”
Toni shot back.

* * *