Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (15 page)

But Suzanne wasn’t about to set the record straight concerning Sam deferring to a visiting ME. It was bad enough that Drummond’s autopsy was even being discussed at what had been a perfectly lovely tea party.

Toni still wasn’t finished. “You know they actually take teeny little slices of a person’s liver, kidney, and brain and look at them under a microscope?”

“You must be a huge fan of
CSI
,” said Reiker, looking a little askance.

“Nah,” said Toni. “I think I saw that on an old episode of
Quincy
.”

* * *

“HOW
awful is it out there?” asked Petra. The tea was officially over and all the guests had departed in a sugar-induced, carbo-zonked haze. Suzanne, Toni, and Kit had gathered in the kitchen, picking at what was left of the sandwiches and cake. “Is the café pretty messy?” Petra asked again. She was a neat freak with a touch of OCD. She liked things to be clean, organized, and in good repair.

Playing to Petra’s insecurities now, Toni gave a huge grimace. “Do you remember those old films of Woodstock? When the concert was over and everyone had cleared out and there was so much trash and garbage left it looked like a neutron bomb had exploded?”

“Oh no,” said Petra. “It can’t be
that
bad.”

“I think it’s worse,” said Toni.

“It’s not that bad,” said Kit.

“In that case,” said Toni, “
you
can give me a hand with the cleanup.”

“But only if she feels okay,” said Petra. “Kit,
do
you feel okay—are you better now?”

“I’m fine,” said Kit. “That piece of quiche you gave me kind of settled things down.”

“Eggs have a way of doing that,” agreed Petra. “They’re kind of a magic elixir.”

“So what’s our plan of attack?” asked Toni.

“Petra stays in the kitchen to tidy up her domain,” said Suzanne. “And the three of us tackle the café. We’ll bus dirty dishes, gather up tablecloths, put away candles and stuff, and handle whatever else needs doing.”

“Got it,” said Toni, pushing open the door. “Come on, Kit Kat.”

“What
are
we going to do about that poor girl?” asked Petra once she and Suzanne were alone in the kitchen.

“You mean Kit?”

“Yes. Who else?”

“I don’t know,” said Suzanne. She stood up just as the wall phone shrilled. “Maybe . . . throw her a baby shower?” She grabbed the receiver off the hook and said, “Hello?”

“Suzanne.”

“Sam!” she said, recognizing his voice and suddenly feeling badly that she hadn’t thought about him all day. Well, since they kissed each other good-bye this morning, anyway.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m going to be hung up at the hospital for a while.”

“Okay,” she said. They had planned to go out for a burger tonight, but she understood. The life of a doctor could be—interesting.

“I’ll probably be stuck here until around nine. Can I call you later?”

“Of course,” she said. “No problem.” She hesitated. “Is everything all right?”

“Um,” said Sam. “I promise I’ll call you later.”

* * *

“SUZANNE,”
said Toni. She jabbed a broom under one of the tables in the café, trying to snag a few errant crumbs. “I have a favor to ask.”

“What’s that?” asked Suzanne. She was at the counter, stacking teapots into a gray plastic tub.

“Come along with me to the race tonight,” said Toni.

Suzanne turned, a blank look on her face. “What race?” She wondered if there was something she’d missed. Maybe a 10K for the Sesquicentennial?

Toni wrinkled her nose. “You know . . . with Junior? The demolition derby over at Golden Springs Speedway?”

“He’s really racing tonight? Oh dear.”

“Tell me about it,” Toni said in a small voice.

“Why exactly do you want me to come along?” Suzanne decided that Toni either wanted her to mumble prayers for Junior’s safety—or try to talk him out of racing.

Toni shrugged. “Let’s just call it moral support.”

“Won’t Junior think it’s weird if I tag along?”
And mumble
prayers? Or try to talk him out of racing?

“Aw, he’ll be thrilled. We’ll give you a trucker cap and tell him you’re part of the pit crew.”

“Does Junior have a pit crew?” asked Suzanne.

“You’re lookin’ at her.”

Kit, who’d been listening to their exchange, said, “You really should go, Suzanne. Those races are a lot of fun.”

“You think?” said Suzanne. But deep down she knew it would be a horrible experience. Cars buzzing around a track like angry hornets, rollovers, crashes, sirens and red lights . . . injuries.

“Come on, Suzanne,” said Toni. “Do you
really
have something better to do?”

Sensing Toni was in desperate need of company, Suzanne gave in and said, “Okay, if you absolutely insist.” But deep down she was really thinking,
Yes, I have something better to do. A lot of things would be better. Like reading a book, watching TV, maybe even scrubbing the kitchen floor!

* * *

FORTY
minutes later, the café was sufficiently restored to its normal state of readiness and Kit was sent on her way home. As Petra and Toni poked around in the Knitting Nest, marveling over a new shipment of alpaca yarn, Suzanne worked in the kitchen, wrapping up leftover tea sandwiches and carrot cake to take home with her.

Maybe, she decided, she could bring some of the food with her to the demolition derby tonight. Then she wondered if a pit—is that what you really called it?—was really the idyllic spot for a picnic.

A
tap, tap, tap
on the back door brought Suzanne out of her reverie.

Who’s there?
she wondered. Then she scrambled to the back door and peered through the screen at a shadowy, looming figure.

Which turned out to be none other than Sheriff Doogie.

“What’s up?” Suzanne asked him, as she opened the door and let him in. Had something happened? Had he been at the autopsy and learned something new and important?

“I’ve got a heads-up for you,” said Doogie, mincing no words. His gray eyes bounced around the kitchen, studiously avoiding hers. His mouth was pulled into a tight line.

“What’s going on?” Suzanne asked suddenly.

Was there big news? While tea kettles hissed and burbled at the Cackleberry Club, had Doogie finally nabbed the killer? Was this nightmare finally over? But no, if that’s what had happened, wouldn’t there be a look of supreme relief on his face? Wouldn’t he’d be acting a lot more cocky than he was right now?

“I’m only doing this because we’re friends,” said Doogie. “And because the two of you are friends.”

A warning bell sounded loud and clear in Suzanne’s head. “What are you talking about?”

Doogie rubbed a meaty hand over his mouth, then focused sad eyes upon her. “We found a Taser stashed in Missy’s apartment.”

His words hit Suzanne like the proverbial ton of bricks. Her mind reeled with disbelief, as if the world had seriously tilted on its axis. Then, in a voice filled with gravel, she choked out, “What?”

“DON’T
make me say it again, Suzanne. It was hard enough getting it out the first time.”

“Doogie, no!” Suzanne cried. “I don’t believe it!” She stared at Doogie’s mottled face and suddenly realized that he looked as lousy as he probably felt.

“Believe it,” he said. “It was there. Top drawer of her dresser. Saw it with my own two eyes.”

“What were you doing prowling around Missy’s apartment?” Suzanne demanded. “In her
dresser
, for goodness’ sake! Isn’t that a little—I don’t know—beyond protocol? A little too personal?”

“Not prowling, searching,” Doogie corrected. “And it was all carried out exactly by the book. We had a search warrant signed by Judge Carlson. Had everything all sewed up just like we were supposed to.”

“Why on earth did you go to a judge for a search warrant?”

“Because we had probable cause,” said Doogie, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Suzanne wasn’t buying it. “You had nothing of the sort!”

“Yes, we did,” said Doogie, trying to keep his voice level. “We have two other witnesses, besides you and Toni, who swear on a stack of Bibles that they saw Missy driving out of that cemetery Thursday morning. You all placed her there without question. So that was good enough for me and a few other people.”

“Who are the other witnesses?”

Doogie shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m really not at liberty to get into specifics . . .”

“Come on, Doogie,” said Suzanne. “That’s a bunch of hooey and you know it. If you drove all the way over here to tell me about finding the Taser, then you can sure as heck reveal who your witnesses are.”

“I suppose,” said Doogie slowly. It was clear he wasn’t happy with the way this conversation was going. “One of them is Mrs. Haberle. And the other is Allan Sharp.”

“Mrs. Haberle!” Suzanne blurted out. “The woman is eighty-four years old, wears glasses with Coke-bottle lenses, and is hardly the poster child for most reliable witness.” She could feel the outrage bubbling inside her now. And it was about to pop and ooze all over the place.

“Still,” said Doogie, “Mrs. Haberle was working in her tomato patch and she recognized Missy’s car.”

“Excuse me, but Mrs. Haberle wouldn’t recognize a VW Bug from a Rolls-Royce Phantom,” said Suzanne, really steamed. “And how did Mrs. Haberle come to be a witness in the first place, pray tell? This I’d really like to hear.”

“Because of smart and solid investigative techniques.”

“Meaning?”

Doogie studied his boots. “I sent all my deputies out to question the folks who live along Monarch Road.”

“And just how was Allan Sharp’s keen observation called into question?” Suzanne asked.

“Turns out the man was right there when it all went down.”

“Isn’t that convenient,” Suzanne snapped.

Doogie held up his hands. “It was all aboveboard. Allan Sharp and Mayor Mobley were out scouting a plot of land near the Sunnyside Daycare Center. Apparently, Sharp has big plans to develop that area. He’s gonna put up some more of his ticky-tacky town houses, I guess.”

“And Sharp just happened to see Missy drive by,” said Suzanne.

“Yup. He swears he saw Missy drive by that morning, and Mobley backs him up.”

“That’s not backing someone up, that’s collusion!” exclaimed Suzanne. “You know what a dirty dealer Mayor Mobley is—and Sharp isn’t any better. Shame on you for taking their word for it! For swallowing their story hook, line, and sinker!”

Doogie tried to muster a dollop of patience, but he seemed less and less sure of himself with each passing moment. “I don’t know why Allan Sharp would lie about something like this.”

“Sure you do,” said Suzanne. “Allan Sharp despised Lester Drummond. Sharp was one of the board members who voted to fire Drummond from the prison, remember?” She stopped and tried to pull her scattered thoughts together. “Doogie, listen to me, Toni and I ran into Allan Sharp last night at the cemetery walk. He was chortling like mad about Drummond. About what a dreadful person he was. On and on. For all you know, Sharp could be the killer!”

“That’s doubtful,” said Doogie. But he looked like he was ready to wobble.

“Come on, Doogie, you know for a fact that Allan Sharp and Mayor Mobley stuffed the ballot box last November to get Mobley reelected. If they’re not above that kind of shameless tactic, obviously they wouldn’t think twice about coercing you into getting a warrant!”

Doogie’s face turned red as a chili pepper.

Of course, they did
, thought Suzanne.
I can see it large as life on Doogie’s face.

“It’s out of my hands now,” said Doogie with some resignation. “We went in, did our search, and found a Taser.” Looking dejected, he turned and stepped back outside.

“So what are you going to do now?” Suzanne shouted out after him. “Arrest her?”

“We already did,” answered Doogie. “Missy’s being arraigned first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Then I’ll be there to post bail,” Suzanne snapped back.

“Be careful, Suzanne,” warned Doogie. “Be careful who you take sides with in this thing.”

But Suzanne had already taken sides. And slammed the door in his face.

* * *

THREE
minutes into Suzanne’s recounting of events to Toni and Petra, the phone rang. Petra picked it up, listened closely for a couple of moments, then silently held out the receiver to Suzanne.

“Suzanne!” came Missy’s hollow, strangled voice. “I . . . I . . .”

That was all she managed to get out. The rest of her words were lost behind pitiful sobs.

“I know, I know,” Suzanne cooed into the phone. Even though she was angry and frustrated to the point where she wanted to let out a good long scream, she tried to hold it together for Missy. “Sheriff Doogie just stopped by and told me you’d been taken in.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word “arrested.”

“I need your help!” wailed Missy. She sounded frantic and desperate. “I need to make bail tomorrow. I just have to. I know this is a lot to ask and all, but I’ve got to, Suzanne. Can you . . . Will you . . . ?”

“Of course,” Suzanne answered without hesitation. “You know I will. But, um, what do I do exactly? Who do I speak with?” She wasn’t sure how this whole process worked. She’d never posted bail for anyone before. In fact, she’d never even known anyone who’d been arrested. Except maybe Junior.

“They tell me there’s an arraignment tomorrow morning,” Missy stammered out. “So that’s when you have to post bail.”

“What about a lawyer?” said Suzanne. “Do you have one?”

“Yes,” said Missy. “I called Harry Jankovich over in Jessup. So he’ll be there, too. In fact, I can give you Harry’s phone number if you need it. He said it’d be okay if you called him at home. He’ll tell you how everything works.” She sniffled loudly.

“Good. Okay. I’ll give Harry a call. And I’ll
be
there tomorrow.”

“You promise?” Missy’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

“You better believe it,” said Suzanne. She was dying to ask Missy why she had a Taser in her possession—she still couldn’t get over that fact. But she figured she’d let it go for now.
One thing at a time. I’ll put one foot in front of the other and forge ahead step-by-step.

“Now what do we do?” Petra asked, once Suzanne had hung up the phone. Petra and Toni had remained at Suzanne’s side during the entire conversation with Missy.

“There’s nothing to do,” said Suzanne, “until I go to the Law Enforcement Center tomorrow morning.”

“It’s a good thing Missy didn’t come to the tea,” said Toni. “Imagine if Sheriff Doogie had come busting in on all those ladies like some kind of crazy storm trooper!”

“Don’t even think about that,” said Suzanne. “All we can do is try to stay positive.”

“And pray,” said Petra. “Ask the Good Lord for help.”

“Do you think He’ll hear us?” asked Toni.

Petra’s face softened. “Honey, the Lord hears us whenever we pray. That’s one thing in this world you never have to worry about.”

* * *

SUZANNE’S
arms and legs felt leaden and her brain felt as soggy as a bowl of day-old oatmeal as she stumped to her car. Climbing in, she tossed her bag on the seat next to her, gripped the wheel, and gritted her teeth, trying to cut through the fog and kick her brain into overdrive. There had to be a reasonable explanation as to why Missy owned a Taser. There had to be! Most women didn’t have a nasty thing like that tucked in a dresser drawer next to their slip.

Even if Missy had bought the Taser for self-protection, wouldn’t she have dumped it right after Drummond’s death? Just in case something like this happened? Sure she would have. Of course, that supposition was based solely on the premise that Missy was innocent.

So, what if she wasn’t? What if she was guilty?

Suzanne didn’t want to contemplate that possibility. Her brain just didn’t want to go there. No, there had to be something else going on. A clever killer who had schemed to set Missy up? But who—and why?

Suzanne racked her brain for answers. Was there some critical clue that she or Doogie had missed? There had to be. She tried to concentrate, tried to think outside the box, but no brilliant thoughts appeared in a cartoon bubble above her head. No blinding flash lent any new insight into the murder. Not right now, anyway.

Feeling dazed and a little helpless, Suzanne put her car into gear. But instead of creeping around the Cackleberry Club and onto the main road, in a spur-of-the-moment decision she eased her way past the back shed and through the woodlot at the rear of her property. Then she bumped across the dirt road that led to the farmyard across the way.

It was really her farm, bought and paid for by her dear Walter as an investment of sorts. Now she was leasing it to a farmer named Reed Ducovny. He put the rich acreage to work by growing bumper crops of soybeans and Jubilee corn.

Suzanne topped a small hill and was rewarded with a panoramic view of a lovely faded red, hip-roof barn, three small outbuildings, and a white American Gothic farmhouse where Reed and his wife lived. No cattle, pigs, chickens, or dairy cows inhabited the old farmstead at the moment. Just her beloved horse, Mocha Gent, and a mule by the name of Grommet.

I might be busy with the Cackleberry Club—and now I’m smack dab in the middle of a murder mystery—but I’ll never, ever forget about these critters. They mean the world to me.

Thinking about Mocha and Grommet soothed her, helped her respiration slow down and her racing mind find some comfort.

Parking her car next to the barn, Suzanne stepped out of the car and glanced at the sky. A sultry haze hung over the fields as far as she could see, and the temperature had climbed into the low eighties. But the air carried an electrical feel, almost as if a big storm might be brewing to the south. Storm clouds hunkered over Kansas, trying to suck up moisture from the Gulf and spin it into something fierce. Or maybe, she decided, the rain would just move in harmlessly and give the fields a much-needed soaking.

Sliding open the barn door, Suzanne breathed in the rich mingled scents of fresh hay, oiled leather, and horses. She drifted past the long row of empty stanchions, heading for the back of the barn and the two large box stalls.

Mocha was the first one to hear her coming. He’d probably picked up her scent. Or perhaps he was a psychic horse. Either way, there was a low, welcoming nicker, then the echoing stomp of a hoof.

“Hey, guy,” Suzanne called to him, a smile spreading across her face. “Hey, Mocha boy.”

Mocha pushed his chest up against the gate and thrust his head out for Suzanne to pet. He was a stocky, blocky quarter horse, a reddish brown chestnut with large brown eyes and a crooked white blaze that splattered down the center of his Roman nose. He’d been with her for five years now and she loved him dearly.

Suzanne scratched behind Mocha’s ears, then ran her hand down his cheek, tracing down the side of his nose and ending up under his chin in a field of prickly stubble. In appreciation, Mocha gave a vigorous snort.

Grommet, the mule, pushed his head across his gate, too. He was shiny black and enormous, almost seventeen hands high. Bobbing his head, he thrust his huge ears forward, eager for her touch and attention. She’d bought him in a sheriff’s auction a year ago and never regretted it.

“I was getting to you, boy,” said Suzanne, rubbing his nose just the way he liked. Suzanne didn’t ride Grommet: his gait was a little too slow and shambling, but he made a dandy roommate for Mocha. The two guys seemed to get along just fine as stable buddies, and Suzanne was grateful that Ducovny took such good care of his equine guests.

Popping the lid off a metal container, she grabbed a scoop of oats and fed it to Grommet. Mocha, worried he wouldn’t get his fair share, let loose a nervous whinny.

“Not to worry,” she told him. When Grommet was finished munching, she dipped the scoop back into the oats and fed some to Mocha. He chowed down noisily, chewing, drooling a little, all the while keeping a watchful eye on her. When he was finished, he nudged the scoop, trying to cadge a second serving.

“No, you don’t. In fact, in another week, you’re going to be spending a lot more time out in the pasture. Be good for you. You could stand to lose a couple of pounds.”

Mocha just stared at her, as if to say,
Please. I’m perfect just the way I
am.

“You do want to do some barrel racing this summer, don’t you?” Suzanne asked gently.

Mocha backed away.

“Ooh, you know exactly what I’m talking about! Well, buddy, you and I are going to start doing some serious workouts. I can promise you that.” Suzanne unbolted the gate and slipped inside Mocha’s stall. She threw her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in his rough, tangled mane. Big horse, comforting horse, she thought to herself as she inhaled his pungent horsey scent. In a world gone a little bit crazy, it was pure joy to have a creature like this to love.

And know that he loved you back. No matter what.

* * *

BACK
home some twenty minutes later, Suzanne felt calmer and more centered than before. Her little detour had worked wonders. And as she hummed about the bathroom, freshening up, she wondered what on earth one should wear to a demolition derby. Was there even “proper” attire?