Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (4 page)

“Really?” said Havis. “You think they’d come just to see the actual scene of the crime?”

“What’s left of it anyway.”

“What an awful thought!” said Havis, looking increasingly worried. “I better speak with the cemetery people. Make sure that grave is filled in immediately and the area secured!”

“Do that,” said Suzanne. “Otherwise it will surely be a huge curiosity.” She smiled warmly and reached a hand out to steady Havis, who looked awfully upset. “Really, it’s going to be fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“But I do,” said Havis. “I have to. The Logan County Historical Society is my first curatorial job. Actually,
director’s
job. I don’t want to blow it.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Suzanne, “because you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just a victim of circumstances.”
Kind of like Missy probably is.

“Drummond’s death in the cemetery just came whizzing out of nowhere,” said Havis, shaking her head.

“Nothing you can do about it now,” said Suzanne. “Except ride it out. Besides, I know tomorrow’s rededication ceremony will be a lovely event. A lot of people in Kindred have relatives buried there, so your ceremony will be particularly meaningful to them.”

Havis seemed to brighten at her words. “And we really have an entire
calendar
of events.” She smiled. “Our candlelight tours on Saturday night, and then Sunday’s Historical Society tea at the Cackleberry Club.”

“Which we’re looking forward to enormously,” said Suzanne. “So please . . .” She stepped off the curb. “Don’t worry about a thing!”

“You’re too kind,” said Havis, giving a little wave.

Not really
, thought Suzanne, as she crossed the street to her car.
It’s just that I’m worried
enough for both of us.

HALFWAY
across the street, Suzanne recognized Doogie’s cruiser rolling toward her. She stopped and stood in the middle of Main Street, dodged a pickup truck with a sad-looking brown dog riding in back, avoided a hotdogging kid on a banana bike, and waved at Doogie.

She was rewarded with an acknowledging blink of his headlights as he pulled up alongside her, his driver’s side window down.

“What’s up?” Suzanne asked, leaning in slightly. Doogie was wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses, the kind state troopers favored, and his modified Smokey Bear hat was flopped on the passenger seat next to an open bag of Fritos. She had a sudden, wild flight of fancy. Maybe the sheriff had already figured things out. Maybe he’d already dismissed Missy as a possible suspect and resolved Drummond’s death.

Yeah, right, and maybe pigs can fly.

Instead, Doogie removed his sunglasses and stared morosely at her.

“You look awfully down,” said Suzanne. He hadn’t looked this upset a few hours ago. Her nerves suddenly fizzed into overdrive as she took in the full measure of his face. “What’s wrong? Did something else happen?”

“We’ve got a murder on our hands,” said Doogie slowly. “A definite homicide.”

Suzanne had been waiting for the other shoe to drop and now here it was. A size-fourteen clodhopper. “You found evidence to substantiate this? I thought you said you were going to wait for the forensic pathologist to make an exact determination.”

Doogie put a meaty hand to his chest. “There are a couple of marks.” His hand moved slowly in small, concentric circles. “On Drummond’s chest.”

“What kind of marks?”

“I got three people who believe the pattern is consistent with that of a Taser or stun gun.”

“You can’t die from a stun gun,” said Suzanne. She took a big gulp and added, “Can you?”

“It’s been known to happen in a few cases,” said Doogie. “Especially if there have been rapid, repeated bursts.”

“Wow,” she said. Then, “Who are the three people who advanced this stun gun theory?”

“George Draper, Dick Sparrow, who is one of the paramedics, and your friend, Dr. Hazelet.”

“And they all concur?” She suddenly wondered why her words sounded like a scripted line from
General Hospital.

“Yes, they do,” said Doogie. “And a Taser in particular can be especially dangerous if drugs or alcohol were involved, or the victim was in some way restrained.”

“Do you think that’s the sort of combo that killed Drummond?”

“I don’t know.”

“But now you’re on your way to interview Missy,” put in Suzanne. She leaned back from his window.
Really, to interrogate her.

“Absolutely,” said Doogie. “Since she’s our primary suspect.”

This was unacceptable to Suzanne. “That’s just plain crazy. There has to be a logical explanation for all this! For one thing Missy doesn’t own a stun gun.”

“You sure about that?” said Doogie.

“I don’t know
anyone
who owns a stun gun,” said Suzanne. “Besides, there have to be other suspects.”

“Missy’s what we got so far. You and Toni swear you saw her leaving the cemetery, so that places her directly at the scene of the crime.”

“Not directly,” said Suzanne. “There’s that time difference.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Doogie.

“Sure it does. If Drummond died earlier and Missy was there later there’s probably no correlation.”

“That’s not how I see it,” said Doogie. His right hand wandered over and dug into his bag of Fritos.

“Missy’s no killer,” said Suzanne with exasperation. “I bet if we put our heads together we could figure out some
real
suspects. People who sincerely hated Drummond and wished him ill.”

“That might be half the town,” Doogie mused as he stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth and chomped noisily. “Since Drummond wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity.” His gaze softened then as he looked at Suzanne. “I know Missy’s a friend of yours . . .”

“What about Larry Chamberlain?” Suzanne proposed. “The deputy mayor? He sits on the board of directors for the prison. Didn’t he pretty much spearhead the charge to get Drummond fired? Maybe he had it in for Drummond.”

Doogie shook his head, totally unconvinced. “Chamberlain and some of the others got their way and Drummond
was
fired. So he had no beef with him anymore. There’d be no good reason for Chamberlain to kill him.”

Suzanne racked her brain. “Maybe one of the prisoners? Drummond was the warden there for quite a while.”

“Last time I looked,” said Doogie, “all the prisoners were locked up in their cells or working in the foundry hammering out license plates. I doubt they were gallivanting through Memorial Cemetery early this morning.”

“I meant an ex-prisoner,” said Suzanne. “One who’s out on parole or has been recently released.”

“I’m already on that,” said Doogie. “Warden Fiedler is drawing up a list for me.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Suzanne. “Because it certainly could have been one of them. Someone who hated or despised Lester Drummond for whatever reason and wanted to get revenge. Maybe Drummond punished him harshly or . . . I don’t know . . . sent him to the hole.”

“I don’t think they send prisoners to the hole,” said Doogie, chuckling a little. “That’s only in Clint Eastwood movies. This prison’s not that hard-core.”

“Then what do they do for punishment?” said Suzanne.

“I don’t know,” said Doogie. “Probably . . . take away their computer privileges?”

“What we need are a couple of good clues,” said Suzanne.

Doogie leaned back and scratched his ample belly. “Oh, we got a clue or two.”

“But you’re still waiting for the autopsy,” said Suzanne, mystified. “So what on earth did you turn up? Was there something else on Drummond’s body besides the markings? Some strange hair or fibers?”
What have you
got that you’re not sharing with me, Doogie?

“You’ve been watching too many episodes of
CSI
,” said Doogie. “No, what we got is Drummond’s cell phone.”

Suzanne stared at him. “What? Where did you find it?”

“In Drummond’s back pocket.” Doogie’s eyes flicked toward his rearview mirror then back at Suzanne. “We scrolled through his recent call list and emails. It seems that someone
invited
him to that cemetery.”

“Just like that? There was an email invitation?”

“Well,” said Doogie, “it was one of those short texty-type messages written as an email.”

“What’d it say exactly?”

“It said, CU Memorial 0500.” Doogie looked pleased with himself, as if he’d taken a giant stride into texting and technology. “See you at Memorial at five o’clock this morning,” he said, deciphering it for her.

“I get it,” said Suzanne. “But who invited him? That’s the critical question.”

“We don’t know that yet. The sender’s name was blocked.”

“But you can get around that, right?” said Suzanne. “You can get some tech guy to figure it out for you?”

“Possibly,” said Doogie. “I called a fellow who does technical forensics for the state police. He says it can be a complicated process. Sometimes an email even goes through a re-sender that’s offshore.”

“Offshore? What are we talking about—Europe?”

“More like the Caribbean,” said Doogie. “Apparently it’s a hotbed for resending and Internet scans.”

“Kind of like Nigeria,” said Suzanne. There wasn’t a day went by that she didn’t get some stupid scam letter in her email.

“But the Caribbean’s closer,” said Doogie. He snorted and grabbed another handful of chips. “And they got good rum and conch chowder.”

* * *

TEN
minutes later, Suzanne pulled in behind the Cackleberry Club and came flying through the kitchen door. Petra was busy chopping vegetables and Toni was munching a chicken salad sandwich and occasionally gazing through the pass-through, keeping a watchful eye on a handful of lingerers.

Suzanne dropped her suede hobo bag on the floor and said, “Which do you want first? The good news or the bad news?”

Petra looked up from her chopping. “Good.”

“Bad,” said Toni, ever the contrarian.

Suzanne drew a deep breath. “Okay, here’s the scoop in a nutshell. The rededication ceremony at the cemetery is definitely still on for tomorrow, somebody attacked Lester Drummond with a stun gun, and Missy Langston has become Doogie’s prime suspect in Drummond’s murder.”

“That’s totally whack,” said Toni. “The part about Missy, I mean.”

“There’s no way Missy would attack or even kill Drummond,” said Petra. “She doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. She’s a caring, gentle soul.”

“You think everybody’s a gentle soul,” put in Toni.

“That’s because most people are,” said Petra. “Given half a chance.”

“Doogie’s pretty adamant about this,” said Suzanne. She put a hand to the back of her neck and ruffled her hair.

Petra frowned. “You’re still going to stand by Missy, aren’t you? I mean, we all have to.”

“Darn tootin’,” said Toni.

“Of course I am,” said Suzanne. “It’s just that Doogie . . .” She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Petra crossed the kitchen in two gigantic strides and planted her hands on her ample hips. “Listen to me, Suzanne Dietz, I don’t want to hear ‘I don’t know’ from you. You’re the one who reads all the mysteries we got stashed in the Book Nook and figures them out by the time you hit chapter three. So put on your Sherlock Holmes cap and start figuring this thing out! You hear me?”

“You mean help Doogie?” said Suzanne, a little stunned at Petra’s outburst.

“No, help Missy!” said Petra. “She hasn’t had an easy life since her divorce from that no-good insurance huckster.” She gave a satisfied nod. “There, I got that off my chest. I said my piece.”

“You sure did,” said Toni. “Jeez Louise.” She stared at Petra. “I had no idea you were so tense.”

Petra looked suddenly sheepish. “I’m not tense. I’m just terribly alert. And I didn’t mean to attack you, Suzanne. It’s just that you’re so gol darn smart at figuring things out. So to see you kind of befuddled like this scares me a little. Rocks my world.”

“Ditto that,” said Toni.

“I had no idea you guys had that much faith in me,” said Suzanne.

“You’re our fearless leader,” said Toni. “When Junior dumped me for the sixty-fourth time and poor Donny got Alzheimer’s and stopped recognizing Petra’s sweet face, you were the one who pulled this all together.” She spread her arms to indicate that she meant the Cackleberry Club. “You made it possible for us to pick up the pieces and regain our confidence and self-worth.”

“And live again,” said Petra.

“And laugh again,” added Toni.

“Plus, you did it all just weeks after burying your own husband,” said Petra, remaining serious. “So, honey, that tells me that you’ve got beaucoup fortitude.”

“And guts,” said Toni. “Although I guess fortitude is a fancier word.” She shrugged. “I better get me one of those ‘learn a new word a day’ calendars.”

“You’re doing just fine,” said Petra.

“Oh my gosh,” said Suzanne, totally blown away by all their words. “A girl couldn’t ask for two better BFFs.”

“Group hug?” said Toni, jumping up.

They clustered together, arms slung around one another’s shoulders, squeezing hard.

“Always remember,” said Petra, “a friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.”

“Amen to that,” said Toni.

And a friend stands by you
, Suzanne thought to herself, knowing she had to stand by Missy. No matter what it cost her.

* * *

STILL
feeling at odds and ends, Suzanne threaded her way through the café and slipped into the Book Nook. With one glance around at the reassuring collection of books she felt instantly at peace. She loved the floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves with their orderly array of books. And she was especially proud of the little typewriter-typed signs that called out each of their various categories: Mystery, Romance, Fiction, Cooking, Crafts, and Children’s. A few nights a week, Toni led a romance readers club in here while Petra gave knitting lessons next door. On those nights, Suzanne would stay late, too, fixing finger sandwiches for their guests or serving up wheels of cheese, sliced apples, and crusty baguettes. It was a win-win situation for everyone. The events were great fun for their customers and brought in a little extra money for the Cackleberry Club. Because, Lord knows, in this topsy-turvy economy, every nickel counted.

Suzanne grabbed a copy of
Winnie-the
-
Pooh
that had been left in one of the old maroon-colored velvet chairs and shelved it in its rightful spot. Then she glanced at her watch. Mid-afternoon already. Would Doogie have finished his interview with Missy by now? Was Missy suddenly free as a bird, cleared of any and all nasty suspicion, and already back at work as manager of Alchemy Boutique? Good question.

Stepping into her office, Suzanne dialed Missy’s cell phone. She got the same six rings and voice mail. Okay, that still wasn’t working. So why not call Alchemy direct? She scanned the phone book and dialed their number.

“Alchemy,” came a cultured voice. “How may I help you?”

Suzanne immediately recognized the voice of Carmen Copeland. Carmen was a local author blessed with a gift for writing semi-hot romance novels. Hence, her bodice busters were forever making the
New York Times
bestseller list and boosting Carmen’s ego even more. Carmen lived in neighboring Jessup in a palatial Victorian home that looked like it had been airlifted in from Nob Hill in San Francisco. And a year ago, she had opened her edgy boutique here in Kindred, determined to jog everyone’s Midwestern sensibilities with cutting-edge European fashion that included Miu Miu bags, huge statement rings, Prada blouses, and expensive designer jeans. Carmen’s other calling card, the one that most folks knew her for, was that she was fabulously wealthy, arrogant, and insensitive. Not necessarily in that order.

“Is Missy there?” Suzanne asked, choosing not to identify herself.

“No, she’s not,” said Carmen in a clipped voice. “Who’s calling, please?”