Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery)

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Laura Childs

Tea Shop Mysteries

DEATH BY DARJEELING

GUNPOWDER GREEN

SHADES OF EARL GREY

THE ENGLISH BREAKFAST MURDER

THE JASMINE MOON MURDER

CHAMOMILE MOURNING

BLOOD ORANGE BREWING

DRAGONWELL DEAD

THE SILVER NEEDLE MURDER

OOLONG DEAD

THE TEABERRY STRANGLER

SCONES & BONES

AGONY OF THE LEAVES

SWEET TEA REVENGE

Scrapbooking Mysteries

KEEPSAKE CRIMES

PHOTO FINISHED

BOUND FOR MURDER

MOTIF FOR MURDER

FRILL KILL

DEATH SWATCH

TRAGIC MAGIC

FIBER & BRIMSTONE

SKELETON LETTERS

POSTCARDS FROM THE DEAD

GILT TRIP

Cackleberry Club Mysteries

EGGS IN PURGATORY

EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD

BEDEVILED EGGS

STAKE & EGGS

EGGS IN A CASKET

Anthologies

DEATH BY DESIGN

TEA FOR THREE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2014 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.

Excerpt from
Steeped in Evil
by Laura Childs copyright © 2014 by Gerry Schmitt & Associates, Inc.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62719-8

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Childs, Laura.

Eggs in a casket / Laura Childs.—First edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-425-25558-2 (hardcover)

1. Restaurateurs—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Fiction. 3. Prison wardens—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title

PS3603.H56E345 2014

813'.6—dc23

2013035912

FIRST EDITION:
January 2014

Cover illustration by Lee White.

Cover design by Annette Fiore DeFex.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For the fine people of Scott County who brought the Bookmobile to my hometown when I was ten years old. Finally, a real library at my disposal! I’m pretty sure I read every book.

Acknowledgments

A huge thank-you to Sam, Maureen, Tom, Bob, Jennie, Dan, and all the designers, illustrators, writers, publicists, and sales folk at The Berkley Publishing Group. You all do so much! And a special thank-you to all the booksellers, reviewers, librarians, bloggers, Facebook friends, and wonderful readers. I’m so glad you’re still enjoying my crazy Cackleberry Club ladies—because I’m still thrilled to write these books!

THE
black wrought-iron gates of Memorial Cemetery loomed up through swirling fog like disapproving sentinels as Suzanne’s Ford Taurus labored up the narrow, muddy road.

“There it is,” said Toni, pointing. She was scrunched next to Suzanne in the passenger seat, her pert nose pressed flat against the steamed-up windshield. “Dead ahead.”

“Lovely choice of words,” said Suzanne, stealing a quick glance at Toni.

Suzanne Dietz, proprietor of the Cackleberry Club, and her business partner, Toni Garrett, were stuffed into her car along with four enormous baskets of fragrant flowers. The cemetery’s Sesquicentennial Celebration, commemorating its founding one hundred and fifty years ago, was supposed to kick off tomorrow morning. And the plans called for a jubilant array of floral decorations, twenty-one gun salutes, and candlelight tours of some of the historic graves. But a nasty spate of rain and chilly weather had swooped in from the Dakotas three days earlier and taken up what seemed like permanent residence in the small Midwestern town of Kindred. Now, on this gloomy, rain-soaked Thursday morning, Suzanne wondered if the skies would clear and if the celebration would even happen.

“Careful, careful,” Toni warned as Suzanne navigated the car along the slippery lane that wound past a stone statue of a kneeling angel. The angel was missing the top part of one wing and its sorrowful face was pitted with age.

“Poor thing,” said Toni. “Got her wings clipped.”

They were churning and chugging their way through the oldest part of the cemetery, the part where settlers and Civil War veterans lay in quiet repose. Here stood enormous first-growth oaks and cottonwoods, trees that had been shooting toward the sky ever since covered wagons had pushed across the prairies into what had been called the Big Woods. Now, spread out under these trees were ancient grave tablets, battered and bruised by the elements and canted so crazily they looked like rows of rotted teeth. Strangely, this part of the cemetery looked like it hadn’t been maintained on a regular basis.

“Where are we supposed to drop these flowers again?” Suzanne asked as she peered out the front windshield. Weeping willows hung damply down and swept against the sides of her car, making strange whispering sounds. The overly fragrant aroma of the flowers in her backseat was starting to be a little too reminiscent of a funeral home. For Suzanne, the sooner they dumped these baskets and beat a hasty retreat, the better it would be. After all, Petra, the third member of their troika, was back at the Cackleberry Club, the little café they’d founded together a year or so ago on a wing and a prayer. Petra was prepping food and getting ready for breakfast service, which was—yikes!—supposed to kick off a half hour from now.

“We’re supposed to set up the flowers near the Civil War memorial,” said Toni. “At least that’s what the folks at the Historical Society told me.” The Historical Society was sponsoring the event and they’d been a little disorganized of late, what with a brand-new director coming on board and an influx of well-meaning but vaguely ineffectual volunteers.

“So where would that be?” asked Suzanne. She brushed back strands of her graceful, shoulder-length bob as threads of fog swirled outside the car like ethereal cotton candy. Being unfamiliar with this part of the cemetery, she had the feeling that she’d temporarily lost her way. For some reason, every time a marble obelisk or mausoleum floated into view, it gave her the jitters and sent a jolt of adrenaline shooting through her veins.

Easy, girl
, Suzanne told herself.
Just focus on your driving.

Suzanne was on the high side of forty, with silver blond hair and eyes a deep cornflower blue. She projected a low-maintenance ease and elegance, and her figure was strong and lean. Her shoulders, which peeked out from a sleeveless white handkerchief cotton blouse she’d teamed with straight-leg jeans, were just beginning to turn a burnished gold from spring days spent working in her beloved herb garden.

“I know the Historical Society folks were going to erect some kind of open-sided tent,” said Toni. “So we should probably just stick the flowers in there. That way the poor little buds and blooms won’t get pummeled by all this rain.” Toni was short, stacked, and wore her frizzled reddish blond hair piled atop her head. Today she’d swept it into a red gingham scrunchie that matched her pearl-buttoned cowboy shirt. She was mid-forties, a self-proclaimed hottie patottie, and a crackerjack waitress to boot. Toni had grown up in a hardscrabble home life and was used to working her fingers to the bone.

“This weather is just plain awful,” said Suzanne. Her windshield wipers slapped loudly as the back end of her car slewed slightly in the mud. Right now she was wishing Toni hadn’t volunteered the two of them for this little task. Still, she was a business owner here in town and wanted to contribute something to the event.

As she rounded a hairpin turn, Suzanne’s view was pretty much blocked by a copse of shaggy blue spruce. Which was why, when she spotted a small yellow car speeding directly at her down the single-lane road, she gasped in horror. With a mere two seconds to react, Suzanne cranked her steering wheel hard to the right and swerved awkwardly, barely avoiding a head-on collision!

“Whoa!” cried Toni, as she spun in her seat. Even though the yellow car had practically sideswiped them, it tore off without bothering to slow down. “Did you see that crazy driver? He almost creamed us!”

Suzanne’s fingers turned white as she gripped her steering wheel and slowed the car. She felt more than a little unnerved. Because she was pretty sure she’d recognized the driver. “Wasn’t that Missy’s car?” she said. Missy Langston was a friend and one of their neighbors in Kindred.

“Huh?” said Toni, looking surprised. “Was it?”

“Yeah,” said Suzanne, easing her car back into the muddy ruts. “I’m pretty sure it was her.”

“What the heck would Missy be doing up here?” wondered Toni. “Shouldn’t she be at Alchemy Boutique, hanging up clothes and getting ready to open the shop? Working like crazy under the unflinching eyes of her evil boss lady, Carmen?”

“I’m just wondering why Missy didn’t wave hello,” said Suzanne. “Or why she was driving so fast.”
Or why she looked scared out of her wits.

“She probably didn’t see us.”

“Maybe,” said Suzanne. Her teeth gave a little chatter, partly because she felt chilled and partly as a result of their near-collision. Car accidents, real or just close calls, had a way of unnerving her. She flipped the heater on low and cranked up the defroster.

“Typical Missy,” said Toni. “Always in a hurry.”

But to Suzanne’s eye, it looked more like Missy had been in a blind panic. Like she’d been speeding away from something scary. Something frightening.

“Pull in over there,” Toni said now, cocking a finger. “Next to the Civil War graves and the old memorial marker. That’s our drop point.”

“And there’s the tent you mentioned,” said Suzanne. “Thank goodness.” She exhaled slowly, trying to shrug off her unease as they rolled to a stop on damp grass. “Let’s dump these flowers and hustle back to the Cackleberry Club. Petra’s gonna pitch a fit if we’re not back in time.”

“Let’s get ’er done,” said Toni.

They scrambled out of the car, ducking heads and hunching shoulders as rain pelted down.

“This is miserable,” said Suzanne, as she slipped on her jacket and pulled it tight. Then she flipped the seat forward and tried to muscle one of the baskets of peace lilies from her backseat. Unfortunately, the darned plant was wedged in tight and didn’t want to cooperate.

“Good thing I brought my handy-dandy automatic umbrella,” said Toni, grabbing a little black umbrella that looked like a bat with folded wings. Holding it out, she pushed the button, watched as the umbrella unfurled, then yelped in dismay as a gust of wind promptly grabbed it and sent it tumbling among the gravestones. “My umbrella!” yelled Toni. “I got it free with my subscription to
Hollywood Tattle-Tale
!”

“Better grab it,” said Suzanne, as her basket of flowers suddenly popped free, almost sending her sprawling to the damp earth.

Don’t want to do that
, she told herself.
Not here. Not in this place. And certainly not after nearly getting smashed up in a car accident!

“Aggh!” shrilled Toni from nearby. She was one step away from grabbing her umbrella when it spun crazily and suddenly whooshed away from her again. “Suzanne, help!”

“Oh for gosh sakes!” exclaimed Suzanne. “If it means that much to you . . .” She set down her floral basket and chased after Toni, feeling a little silly as she capered across the wet grass. In record time, the downpour flattened her hair and soaked her to the bone.
I not only feel like a drowned rat, now I look like one, too
, she thought to herself.

“This is turning into a hare and hounds chase,” said Toni, breathless and red-faced, as Suzanne caught up with her. “Every time I get remotely close, the doggone wind spins my umbrella away—kerflooey—just like a kid’s toy top!”

“What we have to do,” said Suzanne, trying to be practical, “is circle around. Try to get ahead of the darn thing.”

“Outguess it,” said Toni. “If that makes any sense at all.”

They dashed across soggy ground and dodged around old graves, hot on the trail of Toni’s dancing umbrella.

“There!” called Suzanne. “Over there. Your umbrella’s hung up on that wrought-iron cross!”

Toni pushed herself into an all-out sprint. She stretched an arm out, got a good grasp on the handle, then swung the raggedy umbrella above her head. “Got it!”

“Excellent,” said Suzanne, as she edged her way around a large granite tomb. “Glad to see you’re . . .”

Suzanne suddenly skidded to a halt. There, directly in front of her eyes—six inches from where she was about to take her next step—was an open grave. Pitch-black earth yawned up at her, beckoning her, almost daring her, to come a little closer. The smell of fresh dirt, peat moss, and mildew assaulted her nose even as rain continued to patter down.

“Suzanne?” said Toni, walking toward her, twirling her umbrella lightly as if she were in a Gene Kelly movie. “You look like you just saw . . .”

“A body!” Suzanne gasped. She’d taken a hasty peek over the edge of the gaping pit and was stunned at what she saw. A man was lying down there in a couple inches of water, crumpled on his side, not moving, seemingly not breathing. His clothes were soaked through, and his face and hands, what she could see of them at first glance, were practically bone white, leached of all color.

“What!” said Toni, seeing the look of horror and disbelief on Suzanne’s face.

“There’s . . . It’s . . . You’re not gonna believe this,” Suzanne said, backpedaling away from the grave. Her voice was suddenly high-pitched and strangled. “Someone’s down there!”

Toni moved cautiously toward her. “You mean like a
dead
body?” She reached out and grasped Suzanne’s arm, then stood frozen in place, almost afraid to look down. “In a coffin?”

“No, not in a coffin!” said Suzanne. “That’s the crazy weird thing. A man is just kind of . . . sprawled there.”

“And you’re sure he’s dead?” Toni gibbered.

“Yes. No. I mean I
think
he might be . . . He didn’t seem to be moving or breathing or anything.”
And he’s as white as a ghost . . . dead white.

“Holy guacamole!” cried Toni. She gritted her teeth so hard she practically popped a filling. Then slowly, nervously, she shuffled forward and poked her head over the edge of the grave. “It
is
a body,” she gasped after a few seconds. Her breathing was suddenly thready and ragged, like an overwrought teakettle. “But . . .
whose
body?”

Suzanne’s first thought was to dash back to her car and hightail it out of there. Go someplace safe, someplace warm and familiar where they could call for help. But a dreadful kind of curiosity had sunk its talons into her and she took a few hesitant steps forward to once again gape at the body. And, like a recurring bad dream that crept into the psyche every few months to haunt and terrorize, she knew, deep down in the limbic part of her brain, that this person was
familiar
to her. She recognized the knotted muscles, the tribal tattoo encircling one wrist, and the smooth, shaved head of this man who lay on his side, in uneasy and awful repose.

“I think I know who that is,” Suzanne choked out hoarsely. “
We
know who that is.”

“Who? Who?” said Toni, sounding like a startled owl from the nearby woods.

“It’s Lester Drummond,” whispered Suzanne.

“The prison warden?” asked Toni, stunned.

Suzanne gave a tight, wooden nod as she grabbed her cell phone. “The
former
prison warden.”

* * *

SUZANNE’S
breathless 911 call produced a flurry of activity. Molly Grabowski, the dispatcher at the Law Enforcement Center, listened to her frantic, slightly garbled plea and promised to send Sheriff Roy Doogie right away. Then Molly told her she was also going to alert the director of the Cemetery Society, as well as George Draper, proprietor of Driesden and Draper Funeral Home.

“Send them all,” Suzanne begged into the phone. “And please hurry.”

George Draper got there first, pulling up some five minutes later in a large black Cadillac Federal.

“Limo here,” said Toni. She’d gotten over her initial shock at seeing the dead body and now, as they stood by the grave, felt brave enough to steal little peeks at the dead-as-a-doornail Lester Drummond.

“Draper,” Suzanne said, under her breath. “I wish it had been Doogie who got here first.” Sheriff Doogie was a friend, the duly sworn sheriff of Logan County, and generally the voice of reason. She knew he’d secure the scene, kick-start the investigation, and begin asking all the proper questions. Because—and Suzanne had pretty much accepted this in her head without yet voicing the terrible words—there was no question about it: this certainly had to be a wrongful death.

What else would account for such a bizarre scenario? How else would a dead man end up in a freshly dug grave? Even if Lester Drummond had passed away unbeknownst to them, no self-respecting funeral home would simply dump him in the ground and forgo a coffin, would they? No, of course not. It would never happen. So this had to be . . . an accident? Murder?