Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (13 page)

“You mean like a pillow jammed over his face or something?”

“Or something,” said Sam. “If Drummond was seriously incapacitated by a high number of Taser bursts, he would have been at his attacker’s mercy.”

“So first Drummond was Tasered like crazy,” said Suzanne, not quite believing they were talking about this so matter-of-factly. “And then when he collapsed, someone smothered him?”

“It’s pointing in that direction,” said Sam.

“Wow,” said Suzanne as she digested this new information. “Didn’t this just turn into a murder and a half!”

He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Sorry. I know it’s late at night and this is all quite unsettling. Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.”

Suzanne had to agree. For the last two nights her dreams had been haunted by visions of cemeteries and open graves, of earthen holes and bleached white bones.

“Then let’s change the subject,” she said.

“To trout fishing,” said Sam suddenly. Which made Suzanne giggle. “No, seriously,” he said. “I read that book you gave me, cover to cover. And I’ve been practicing my casting techniques.”

“You’re telling me, right here and now, that you want to go trout fishing,” said Suzanne.

Trout fishing was a sport she’d shared with Walter. But when she’d mentioned trout fishing to Sam in passing one day, he’d jumped at it. And now he seemed intent on venturing out and hooking himself a brook trout or two.

“There’s supposed to be a mayfly hatch in a few days,” said Sam. “That’s according to Burt Finch at the Sports Shack.”

“Do you even know what a mayfly looks like?” asked Suzanne.

“No, but I’m very perceptive,” said Sam. “If I can find one in a book, I’m sure I can spot one in the outdoors.”

“Well . . . okay. We’ll go next week. I’ll dig out my waders.”

Sam pulled her closer and gently kissed her neck. “Do I know how to set the hook or what?”

“Oh yes, you do, Dr. Hazelet. You most certainly do.”

PETRA
stuck her hands on her broad hips and pulled her normally placid face into a frown as she stood squarely in the middle of the kitchen and surveyed the grocery-strewn countertops. “Do you think we ordered enough bread?” she asked. But before Suzanne or Toni could muster an answer, she said, “That’s it. We didn’t order enough bread. We’re going to be short.”

“We’ll be fine,” said Suzanne. “Bill Probst delivered twelve fresh loaves yesterday. That should be enough to feed six teams of hungry Little League baseball players, never mind a women’s tea group.”

It was ten o’clock on Sunday morning at the Cackleberry Club as the three friends fussed about the kitchen, getting ready for the tea party. It should have been a snap with their preplanned menu of scones, tea sandwiches, quiche, and cake. But these days, everything seemed fraught with worry and second-guessing. Things that should be straightforward and simple seemed . . . not simple at all.

“I see egg twist, sourdough, rye, and honey wheat bread,” said Petra, scanning a pile of loaves. “But no cinnamon bread. I need that for my chicken spread. The spice always adds an extra punch.”

“That bread’s probably still in the cooler,” said Toni as she juggled a stack of dessert plates. “Want me to go look?”

“I’ll do it,” offered Kit. Per their request, Kit Kaslik had shown up to help set tables, prep food, serve, and do whatever was needed to help the day run smoothly.

“Thank you, Kit,” said Petra. “I’m glad someone’s on their toes.”

“You’re nervous as a dog at a flea market,” Toni said to Petra. “What’s the problem, lady? Usually you’re all cool and collected and I’m the one who’s stressing.”

“I don’t know,” said Petra. “I’m just upset about . . . things.”

“What things?” Suzanne asked, her eyes squinting at her dear friend. She and Toni hadn’t told Petra about their shadowy cemetery encounter last night, so that certainly couldn’t be what was eating her.

“For one thing,” said Petra, hesitating, “I got a phone call about ten minutes ago . . .”

“Go on,” said Suzanne, her antennae suddenly perking up.

“It was Missy.”

“Okay,” said Suzanne. Now the story was going to spill out.

“And she said she wasn’t coming to the tea,” said Petra.

Suzanne gave Petra a quizzical look. “What? Wait a minute . . . Why isn’t Missy coming? Last time I talked to her, she was looking forward to the tea.”

Petra’s face turned downward in a glum look. “Not anymore, I’m afraid. Missy said that wherever she goes, people give her funny looks. Suspicious looks. She said things have been really tough for her.”

“You’re telling me the entire town knows that Sheriff Doogie is talking to Missy?” Suzanne couldn’t quite believe that.

Petra hefted her serrated bread knife and began shearing off crusts from an unsliced loaf of bread, the teeth of the knife making clear, straight cuts. “I guess that’s about the size of it.”

“But how did people find out about it?” Suzanne wondered. “I know it wasn’t Doogie. He’s trying to keep things under wraps.”

“How much you want to bet it was George Draper?” said Toni. “Doogie probably mentioned it to him—and you know how George
loves
to talk. He’s the Chatty Cathy of the funeral industry! Pull the string in the back of his sedate black undertaker’s suit and he drones on about death being so peaceful then immediately segues into all the hot town gossip. It’s almost like he’s got a split personality.”

“That snarky little crepe hanger!” said Suzanne bluntly. She thought about how, only a few months ago, Draper had been romantically linked to Claudia Busacker, the wife of the former bank president. And how the snooty, snotty Claudia had quietly skipped town to avoid getting caught in a scandal. Talk about serious gossip!

“Anyway,” said Petra, slicing away mechanically, “Missy told me she feels like persona non grata.”

“Not around here, she shouldn’t,” said Suzanne. “She knows I’m sticking up for her.”

“Ditto that,” said Toni.

“I found your cinnamon bread,” said Kit.

“One mystery solved,” said Toni, snapping her fingers.

Kit dropped two loaves onto the butcher-block counter and suddenly slumped forward.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Suzanne asked, alarmed. She stretched out an arm to support Kit and decided the poor girl was looking a little green around the gills. A thin sheen of sweat dampened her forehead.

Kit folded an arm across her stomach, looking nervous and slightly chagrined. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “I can’t quite believe it myself . . .”

“What?” said Petra, looking concerned. “If you think you might be coming down with something . . .”

“I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean,” said Kit. “I’m not contagious.”

“Then what?” asked Suzanne. She reached over to the sink and turned on the cold water so she could fix Kit a cold compress.

“I might be pregnant!” Kit blurted out.

Suzanne turned off the water and gazed at Kit. “You
think
you might be pregnant or you really are?”

“Well,” said Kit, swallowing hard and wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “I used one of those home pregnancy tests yesterday and the result was positive. I saw a little blue arrow.”

“Then you probably are,” said Suzanne. “Those things are pretty accurate.”
Oops.

But Toni had a completely different take on Kit’s rather dramatic announcement. “Wow!” she said, letting out a raucous whoop. “That’s super! So who’s the lucky baby daddy? Is it . . . ?” She suddenly snapped her mouth shut, cowed by withering looks from Suzanne and Petra.

“Sorry,” Toni murmured quickly. “I shouldn’t have . . . um, presumed.”

“It’s okay,” said Kit.

“Is it really?” said Petra, who was coming from a slightly different position. She was deeply religious and believed in the sanctity of marriage before starting a family.

Kit managed a weak smile. “Everything’s going to be fine because I’m actually engaged to be engaged.” At that, she held out her left hand and waggled her fingers. An oversized silver ring with a black stone and wad of tape wrapped around its shank bobbled on her ring finger. “See? Ricky gave me his class ring to wear as a promise ring.”

“Ricky Wilcox?” said Toni. “He’s a good kid.”

“Does a class ring really count?” asked Petra. She sounded less than thrilled.

“Sure it does!” said Toni. “It means Kit is engaged to be engaged. That she won’t be an unwed mother.”

“I’m not sure anyone uses that term anymore,” said Suzanne.

“How about baby momma?” said Toni. “You hear that a lot on
Jerry
Springer
.”

“Well, there’s a chance I might not be married before the baby comes anyway,” said Kit. “Since Ricky’s National Guard unit was just called up.”

“Oh no,” Suzanne said with dismay. “Oh, Kit!”

Now Kit looked a little less sure of the situation herself. “I think Ricky might get sent to Afghanistan.”

“Can’t you guys get married right away?” asked Toni. “Book a church and have a . . . What’s the expression I’m looking for?”

“Shotgun wedding,” said Petra.

“A
quickie
wedding,” said Toni. “A speedy one. You know . . .”

“I suppose we could,” said Kit.

“Or better yet,” suggested Toni, “you could dash off to Las Vegas and get hitched at the Elvis Wedding Chapel, like Junior and I did. You could get married by the King of Rock and Roll himself—or, rather, one of his handsome look-alikes.”

“And we all know how well
your
marriage turned out,” said Petra.

“Yeah—but I’m still all shook up about it!” finished Toni.

* * *

KIT
pulled it together then, as they all did. And, at precisely quarter to twelve, Havis Newton, the director of the Historical Society, waltzed through the front door. She wore a black-and-white houndstooth jacket over a black skirt, her hair was perfectly wound on top of her head, and she tottered on high heels. Instead of her usual denim skirt and nubby sweater, she’d dressed to the nines in honor of the tea party.

“Havis,” said Suzanne warmly, going over to greet her. “Everything’s just about ready.” She took a step back so Havis could feast her eyes on the new, improved Cackleberry Club.

“Oh my gosh,” said Havis as her eyes roved about the café. “What’d you do? The place is absolutely gorgeous. It looks just like a proper tea shop!”

Suzanne smiled.
Yes it does
, she thought to herself. With white linen tablecloths draped over the tables, crisp silk bows tied onto the chair backs, and huge bouquets of colorful spring flowers on every table, it looked as if a wonderful English tearoom had been magically transported from the Cotswolds of England to right here in comfortable Kindred.

Havis took a step closer. “The glassware, the china . . . everything is sparkling!” She sounded thrilled.

Suzanne had selected their best china, polished the silver to a high luster, and put out their nicest cups and saucers. Then she’d added cream pitchers, sugar bowls, and glass tea warmers with small flickering votive candles. So, yes, the tables looked highly inviting and even—dare she say it?—a touch glamorous.

Toni came flying through the swinging door, saw the wonderment on Havis’s face, and said, “Oh, you like what we’ve done?”

“I like it very much,” said Havis. “You ladies have created a beautiful setting for our tea.”

“Wait until you get a load of the food,” said Toni. “Petra’s really knocked herself out.”

“If you don’t mind . . .” Havis dug a hand into her tote bag. “I brought along some place cards. Is it okay . . . May I go ahead and arrange them?”

“You can do anything you want,” said Suzanne. She liked the notion of having place cards at each setting. And Havis obviously wanted to ensure that friends sat with friends, and that potentially shy and uncertain newcomers were tucked happily next to chatty, welcoming volunteers who could share everything they knew about the society and today’s tea.

As Havis consulted her seating chart, she slowly picked her way around the tables, precisely arranging place cards. When she was done, she glanced across the room and gave a self-satisfied nod. Along with the cemetery’s Sesquicentennial Celebration, this was one of the first major events she’d organized as the society’s new leader, and she was pleased at how well Suzanne and her Cackleberry Club partners had brought her wishes to fruition.

The clock struck twelve noon and, as if on cue, the front door flew open and half a dozen women spilled into the café. From then on, it was nonstop commotion as Historical Society volunteers and guests continued to arrive, greeting one another warmly, exclaiming over the beautiful tables, and eventually finding their places. Purses and coats were plopped down as the women settled in.

“Do you think we should start pouring tea?” Toni asked Suzanne, as they stood shoulder to shoulder near the kitchen, taking it all in.

“Sure, let’s start,” said Suzanne. There were still four vacant chairs, but she figured the missing guests would wander in shortly. She hoped they would, anyway.

While Toni began serving tea on one side of the room, Suzanne started on the other side. As she was pouring tea for Lolly Herron, the front door flew open and two more guests breezed in from outside.

Turning around, a smile on her face, ready to greet the newest visitors, Suzanne said, “Welcome, you’re just in time for . . .”

She stopped suddenly as she recognized the somewhat smug countenance of Carmen Copeland. Tall, slender, her dark hair twisted up in a topknot, Carmen, always the fashion plate, wore a butter-soft suede tunic, slim black slacks, and impossibly high heels, and she carried a shiny red designer handbag that was roughly the size of a picnic cooler.

Then, before Suzanne could say another word, Carmen announced, in her cool, breezy manner, “Suzanne, dear, I’d like you to meet Deanna Drummond.”

* * *

YOU
could have heard a pin drop in the room. Every woman’s face suddenly turned toward the newcomers. And every emotion seemed to be expressed on those faces—curiosity, concern, bewilderment, shock. Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. The guests seemed to lose interest in scrutinizing Carmen and Deanna, and hastily resumed their animated conversations.

Suzanne, however, was still riveted.

“I had no idea you two knew each other,” Suzanne blurted out. Then she thought to herself,
What an inane thing to say. Why on earth did I say that? Why didn’t I simply offer my condolences to Deanna Drummond?

“Deanna’s one of my best customers,” said Carmen. “We only met a few weeks ago, but we’ve already become best friends. BFFs, you might say.”

Suzanne nodded at Carmen’s words but turned her attention to Deanna, who was practically a petite carbon copy of Carmen. Dark hair, bright eyes, elegant black sheath dress, shiny patent leather high heels, and glittering jewels to match.

“Please accept my condolences,” Suzanne told her. “And I . . . I apologize for my earlier comment. Your recent tragedy should have been the first thing that came to mind.”

Deanna stared at Suzanne for an impossibly long moment, looking her up and down. Then she said, “You’re Suzanne, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Suzanne Dietz,” said Suzanne, with all the warmth she could muster. “How nice to finally meet you.”

“You were the one who found Lester,” said Deanna with a sudden and strange formality. Her eyes blazed with a kind of inner light and her body language was suddenly stiff and formal.

“I’m afraid so,” said Suzanne. “You see, Toni and I were . . .”

Deanna held up a manicured hand. “Please. I’ve heard the story,” she said in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. “No need to go into it again.”

“I didn’t mean to dredge up . . .” Suzanne stopped and looked at her. Deanna was gazing about the café, no longer paying attention to her. It was as if she’d been summarily dismissed and Deanna had more important things on her mind.

Deanna jabbed impatiently in the air with an index finger. “Are those our places over there?”

“Yes,” Carmen chimed in, picking up on Deanna’s change of focus. “Suzanne, we’d prefer to join our group, if you don’t mind.”