Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (5 page)

Rats, thought Suzanne. “This is Suzanne Dietz.”

“Ah, Suzanne,” said Carmen, her voice going a little smoother, a little silkier. “No, your little friend is not here right now. In fact, she left work mid-morning, claiming to be ill.”

“That’s too bad,” said Suzanne. Obviously Missy hadn’t clued Carmen in to any of the events this morning. Then again, why would she? If Carmen ever thought Missy was a suspect in a local murder she’d probably hand her a pink slip and boot her out the door.

“Yes, I was quite disturbed,” said Carmen. “Since we’re frantic here at the boutique. My new shipment of Cavalli just arrived, as well as two cartons of J Brand Jeans. Someone’s got to steam out all the wrinkles and make everything presentable before it’s put on display!”

Suzanne decided to go for it. “Carmen, did you hear about what happened this morning?”

Carmen sighed deeply. “Good gracious, of course I did. Who
doesn’t
know? When I went out at lunch, the entire town was buzzing about Lester Drummond. That poor, dear man. Such a tragic, senseless accident.”

“It might not have been an accident,” said Suzanne. But she regretted her words almost instantly.

“Not an accident?” said Carmen, her voice rising a couple of octaves. “Suzanne, what do you know that I don’t? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t really have any specific details,” said Suzanne, wishing she’d never even mentioned Drummond.

But Carmen was suddenly suspicious. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Missy, does it?”

Darn Carmen and her sixth sense. “Oops, I need to go now,” said Suzanne. “My other line is blinking.”

Suzanne hastily hung up the phone, feeling lousy and wishing she hadn’t uttered a single word. She hoped she hadn’t gotten Missy into even more trouble.

Me and my big mouth. And why is it that Carmen always brings out the worst in me?

Suzanne wandered back into the Book Nook. Harvey, her favorite UPS driver, had dropped off two cartons of books this morning, so right now was as good a time as any to unpack them. The Cackleberry Club was relatively peaceful, with teatime starting to wind down in the café. Through the doorway, she could see Toni putting together a cream tea special: a bottomless pot of Assam tea along with a scone, jam, and Devonshire cream.

Grabbing a box cutter, Suzanne sawed open the cartons. She hoped they contained the children’s books she’d ordered. They did. There were six copies of
Nighttime Ninja
, six copies of
Fancy Nancy
illustrated books, plus two oversized coffee table books titled
Craft Magic.

Perfect.

In fact, in honor of their upcoming Hearts and Crafts Show, Suzanne decided she’d make a little assemblage on the display table that teetered between two rump-sprung chairs she’d salvaged from a friend’s attic.

She covered the table with one of Petra’s elegant pink afghans, added a vase of daisies, then began stacking up art books. She added two books on basic figure drawing, a craft manual that was supposedly for beginners, and then some books on decoupage, knitting, and oil painting. For a final touch she zipped into her office and grabbed a framed piece of needlepoint off the wall. Petra had embroidered a red heart with the words “2 hearts, 2 lives, 4ever entwined.” It had been her anniversary gift to Suzanne.

* * *

SUZANNE
rattled around for a good hour, fussing with the books, then wandered into the adjacent Knitting Nest. Colorful skeins of yarn and dozens of knitting needles were arranged here, along with towering stacks of quilt squares. Many of Petra’s hand-knit pieces were displayed on the walls, including an azure blue sweater made from cuddly Sugarbunny Yarn, several knitted scarves, and a lovely pink afghan of baby alpaca yarn. Armchairs were draped with knitted shawls and afghans and pulled into a cozy semicircle so customers always felt welcome to sit and stay awhile.

In the relatively short time they’d been open, the Cackleberry Club had emerged as the apex for food, books, knitting, quilting, and good old-fashioned female bonding that drew fans not just from Kindred but from all over the tri-county area.

“Suzanne.” Toni stood in the doorway. “We’re about ready to lock up.”

Suzanne glanced up, surprised. She’d been toying with a set of birchwood knitting needles. “You are? Already?” It seemed as if the afternoon had pretty much whizzed by.

“Yup. Petra’s heading out to visit Donny at the nursing home and Junior’s taking me to the stock car races at the Golden Springs Speedway over near Cornucopia.”

“Yee gads, Junior’s not racing one of his beaters, is he?”

“Not that I know of,” said Toni. “Although it’s always been his dream.” Junior Garrett was Toni’s on-again, off-again husband with a penchant for juvenile delinquency. They’d been married for three years but had lived apart for more than two and a half of those years. Even with their quickie Vegas wedding and immediate separation, Suzanne didn’t doubt they loved each other. But Junior had serious commitment issues. In other words, he was seriously committed to sticking dollar bills in the skimpy costumes of the girls who danced at Hoobly’s Roadhouse, despite his till-death-do-us-part vows to Toni.

“Okay,” said Suzanne. “Have fun, then. Try not to get hit in the head by a flying tire or something.”

“Want me to lock you in?” asked Toni.

“Naw, I’ll be outta here in five minutes,” said Suzanne.

Back in the Book Nook, she fussed with her arrangement for another two minutes, shelved another handful of books, then flipped off the light and walked out into the café.

As Suzanne glanced at their antique soda fountain and rows of colorful ceramic chickens, she couldn’t help but grin. When her husband, Walter, had died a little more than a year ago, she’d taken a giant risk and, like a female Don Quixote, rushed full tilt into this crazy venture. She’d been determined to carve out a future, make a difference, and have more than a few giggles along the way.

And, with the help of Toni and Petra, the Cackleberry Club had become an instant hit. Part café, part social club, part successful event venue, it was a modest little operation, but it made money. Even in their first year of business, they’d not just earned a living but turned a small profit, which was practically unheard of these days, especially when so many small businesses struggled just to keep the lights on.

Yes, other than finding a dead body this morning, things were pretty much right with the world for Suzanne. The Cackleberry Club was steaming along, her love life was simmering, and somehow, she’d managed to lose three pounds so her skinny jeans fit like a glove. So hallelujah and pass the chocolate chip cookies.

“Cackleberry Club,” she murmured as she looked around the cozy café. “You are my lifeline.”

Footsteps sounded outside. Suzanne turned and cocked her head, wondering what traveler might be rattling her doorknob, hoping for a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Well, it was too late now. She’d have to tell them they were closed. But as she stepped toward the door, it suddenly flew open and smacked hard against the wall. And Missy Langston walked in.

Bright circles of pink blazed high on each cheek and her eyes shone with outrage. In her mid-thirties, Missy possessed fair, almost porcelain skin, hair the color of fine corn silk, and a full, ripe figure. She’d caught the eye of more than a few men in Kindred but hadn’t been seeing anyone lately. At least Suzanne didn’t think so.

“Guess where I just came from!” Missy sputtered to Suzanne. And then, in a more plaintive voice, “Guess where I’ve been all afternoon!”

SUZANNE
stared at Missy, trying to gauge her friend’s mood as well as her words. Of course, she had a fairly good idea exactly where Missy had been. “Um . . . the Law Enforcement Center?” Suzanne said. “Talking to Sheriff Doogie about Lester Drummond?”

“Yes!” Missy shrieked. “How on earth did you know that?”

Suzanne shrugged. Missy obviously hadn’t had time to check her voice mail. Or listen to the buzz of town gossip.

“And you know what?” Missy continued, practically sputtering to get her words out.

Suzanne wanted to say,
You’re a suspect.
Instead she said, “What?”

“I’m a suspect!” Missy wailed.

“Missy,” said Suzanne, knowing in her heart she had to be up front about everything. “I know a little about what’s going on. Toni and I saw you this morning. When you were racing out of the cemetery. In fact, you almost plowed into us.”

Missy peered quizzically at her. “That was you?” Her jaw suddenly clenched tight. “So
you
told Doogie I was at the cemetery?”

“Uh . . . Toni mentioned it to him, yes.” When Missy’s eyes turned cold as frosted pennies, Suzanne added, “She . . . we . . . pretty much had to. Especially after we found Lester Drummond lying in a grave.”

Missy’s mouth closed with a snap.

Suzanne continued, “Besides, honey, Doogie would have figured it out for himself eventually. There’s a good chance someone else saw you, too. I figured telling the truth was the aboveboard thing to do.”

“You didn’t do me any favors, Suzanne,” said Missy. Her voice was chilly, veering below zero degrees Celsius.

A tiny line insinuated itself between Suzanne’s brows. Something felt off. Missy wasn’t usually this hostile. In fact, she was one of the sweetest people she knew. “We told Sheriff Doogie because we knew it wouldn’t be a problem for you.” She hesitated, let a couple of beats go by, and said, “It isn’t really, is it?”

Missy blew out a glut of air and plunked herself down in a wooden chair. “It’s just that . . .” She lifted a hand, then let it flop in her lap.

“What, Missy? What’s going on?”

Missy pressed her lips together and shook her head. She looked annoyed. But beneath the tightness in her face she seemed frightened, too.

Suzanne marched over to the counter and poured a glass of water. She carried it back to Missy and sat down at the table across from her.

“Why do people always bring you water when you’re upset?” Missy asked, taking a tentative gulp.

“I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “It’s just what you do.” What she didn’t say was,
It’s what you do to buy time in mixed-up situations that you don’t understand.
In situations where you’re afraid for your friend.

“Well, thanks,” said Missy, taking another sip.

Suzanne decided to take a softer approach. “So you had a conversation with Sheriff Doogie . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.

Missy narrowed her eyes and said, with bite in her voice, “Seems to me you’ve grown awfully close to that old toad.”

Suzanne was suddenly defensive. “Don’t call him that. Sheriff Doogie is a good man. He looks after our town.”

“He’s completely misguided,” Missy snapped. “He thinks I murdered Lester Drummond, which is absolutely preposterous! You know I wouldn’t hurt a fly! Even though I despised Drummond!”

“I know that,” said Suzanne. “But try to see it from Doogie’s point of view. You were at the cemetery, Drummond was at the cemetery.” She lifted her hands, spread her fingers apart in a gesture of appeal. She was hoping Missy might fill in some of the blanks and explain herself. And certainly, there were significant blanks to be filled in.

Instead, Missy grew wary. “Why were
you
there, Suzanne?”

“Because Toni roped me into delivering a bunch of flowers for the Sesquicentennial,” Suzanne replied. “But my guess is, you already know that. Sheriff Doogie probably mentioned all that to you.”

Missy gave a tight nod.

“Okay,” said Suzanne. “Now I want you to listen very carefully to me. I need you to know that I seriously went to bat for you this morning. Yes, we told Sheriff Doogie that we saw you leaving the cemetery. But I also told him, in no uncertain terms, that there was no way you could be involved in Lester Drummond’s death.”

Missy stared at her. “You really told him that?”

“Yes. Of course I did,” Suzanne said with great intensity.

“He didn’t believe you,” Missy said in a soft voice, a voice filled with pain. Her eyes sparkled with tears and she let loose an anguished sound in the back of her throat.

“Then tell me what happened,” said Suzanne. “Tell me what went on up there this morning. And then let me help you!”

Missy put a hand up and pushed away a hunk of blond hair, revealing a furrowed forehead. “Suzanne, do you remember when Ozzie was killed?” Ozzie had been Missy’s sweetheart after she’d divorced her husband, Earl Stensrud.

Suzanne nodded. She remembered.

“Sheriff Doogie questioned me about that murder, too!”

“For about two seconds as I understand it. And it was only pro forma, since you were one of any number of people who were close to Ozzie.”

“But I’m pretty sure Doogie still doesn’t trust me. In fact, I’m pretty sure he hates me!”

“Doogie doesn’t hate you, Missy. He barely even knows you.”

But Missy just shook her head mutely and stood up. Seconds later, before Suzanne could ask any more questions or elicit any responses, she was out the door.

* * *

SUZANNE
was three blocks from home when she flipped a U-turn in the middle of Hayworth Avenue and gunned her engine. She’d just decided that Baxter and Scruff, her trusty watchdogs, could cool their paws for a few more minutes. Because, for some strange reason, the thought had come crashing into her brain that she should return to Memorial Cemetery. To take another look.

She didn’t want to. No, she really did not. In fact, Suzanne repeated that negative litany to herself as she threaded her way down Main Street, navigated a residential district known as The Oaks, then finally made her way out of town and up the narrow road to the cemetery.

And when she drove through the gates, that same jittery feeling she’d experienced this morning came flooding back to her. She drove down the narrow lane between marble tombs and whitewashed headstones. The sun, which had peeped out for all of three minutes this afternoon, was now secluded behind layers of thick clouds, and the chill wind was back. Trees thrashed overhead, low branches
tick-ticked
their skeletal fingers against the sides of her car, and the windshield began to fog. It was like some strange entity was trying to warn her or keep her away.

Silly girl. Stop imagining things
, she told herself.

Turning down a muddy lane, Suzanne noticed a few people wandering among the stone markers. Clad in sweaters and jackets, they were hurriedly placing flowers on some of the graves.

Good. At least I’m not alone here.

But when Suzanne got to the old part of the cemetery, the part where they’d dropped the flowers and discovered Drummond lying in the grave, she discovered she was quite alone.

Just my luck. Doesn’t anybody have relatives buried over here?

She sat for a full minute, engine still idling, defroster sputtering, her hands gripping the steering wheel. Then she drew breath, shut off her engine, and got out.

Squishing across the grass, her shoulders hunched to the wind, Suzanne headed for the flutter of yellow crime scene tape some fifty yards away. When she reached the grave, she decided it didn’t look all that different than it had this morning. Except now it was just an empty dark hole. There was no waxen-looking Lester Drummond crumpled on his side, only the persistent bad memory of seeing him that way. The town’s tough guy laid low.

But by whose hand?

Certainly not Missy Langston’s. Missy may have been harassed by Drummond, but she’d never retaliate with violence. It just wasn’t in her nature. Then who else? Who in this small town, where calm and collegiality were so preciously valued, would do such a terrible thing?

As Suzanne stood there, shivering, thinking dark thoughts, she was suddenly aware of a low, throaty rumble. Startled, she whirled around, feeling a jolt of panic. But all she saw was a small, dirty yellow Bobcat tractor bumping its way toward her.

It’s coming to fill in the grave
, she told herself.
A sort of burial without
the body.

And with that bizarre thought buzzing inside her brain, Suzanne couldn’t get out of the cemetery fast enough.

* * *

WHEN
she finally arrived home, Suzanne wasn’t very hungry. Somewhere along the line (she wondered where!) she’d lost most of her appetite. So after fixing bowls of kibble for Baxter and Scruff, she made herself a small bowl of tomato soup and grabbed a couple of crackers. She put her meager meal on a tray and carried the whole shebang into Walter’s former office, the spot that was fast becoming her cozy library/den/computer room.

Setting everything on a small spinet desk, Suzanne opened her laptop computer and, after a moment’s thought, pecked in the words “stun gun.”

A whole world of companies offering self-defense and personal safety devices was suddenly revealed to her.

Is protection that big a business?

She decided it certainly must be, judging by all the stun guns, Tasers, stun batons, canisters of Mace, and pepper sprays that were readily available to wary, security-minded individuals. There were even voice changers, listening devices, tap detectors, and (who would seriously use this?) invisible ink! The ad copy on all the websites seemed to have the same fear-mongering message: Times are getting tough! You’d better be prepared!

As Suzanne started clicking around, trying to find a local dealer, she came upon Billy’s Gun Shop in neighboring Jessup. Turns out they carried Tasers and stun guns. And wasn’t this interesting. You didn’t even need a carry permit. Really, just cash-and-carry, Suzanne thought.

Suzanne ate her soup thoughtfully as she perused a few more websites filled with so-called protection devices as well as amateur spy paraphernalia that even included wraparound camcorder sunglasses.

Trying to shake off a growing sense of unease, Suzanne finished her soup and decided to take her dogs out for a long walk. A little physical exercise was always helpful in relaxing the brain and dissipating negative energy.

After much wagging of tails and spinning in circles, leashes were clipped onto Baxter and Scruff and they all headed out into the misty evening. Suzanne, wearing leggings, a Windbreaker, and Reeboks, kept up a steady, fast walk-jog pace. The three of them splashed across nearly deserted streets, spun past homes that all seemed to be battened down for the night, and brushed down alleyways where rain dripped off giant lilac bushes. After a spin through Founder’s Park, which was also deserted, the swing sets and slides looking a little forlorn, Suzanne slowed her pace and turned for home.

Now that Baxter and Scruff had sufficiently blown out the carbon, they padded along slowly, sniffing and snuffling at every little patch and parcel of wet grass. And, as Suzanne approached her home, she saw that someone was waiting on her front steps. Sitting there, hunched over, as rain continued to patter down.

Was it Toni? Had she had a fight with Junior and was in need of a little gentle commiseration? Along with a glass or two of pinot grigio?

But when Suzanne got closer, she saw that it was Missy.

“Hi there,” Suzanne said, as she turned up her walk.

“Hi,” said Missy. She was dressed in jeans, short boots, and an olive drab anorak that was cinched at the waist with a wide black leather belt. She looked, Suzanne thought, like a stylish commando.

“You’re sitting in the drizzle,” said Suzanne, diplomatically. “So whatever you want to talk about, it must be pretty important.” She stepped past Missy, stuck her key in the lock, and pushed open her front door. Then she dropped the leashes and let the dogs wander in themselves. “Come on in,” she called to Missy.

“You’re being very nice about this,” said Missy. She ducked her head, looking a little embarrassed.

“You’re my friend,” said Suzanne. She gave a lopsided smile. “I have to be nice. It’s the law.”

“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” said Missy.

“Believe me,” said Suzanne, as she hung up her jacket and stepped out of her damp shoes, “I try not to.”

Once they’d grabbed drinks, orange juice for Suzanne and white wine for Missy, they settled on the sofa in Suzanne’s living room. Suzanne, who was burning with curiosity now, didn’t waste any time. She asked Missy point-blank if she owned a stun gun.

“No!” Missy cried in a strangled voice. “And I wouldn’t even know where to buy one.” She grabbed a pink and white pillow that had the words Keep Calm and Carry On stenciled on it and hugged it to her chest. “Why do people keep asking me about that?”

“Who else asked you about it?”

“Sheriff Doogie did,” said Missy. “This afternoon.”

“During your interview.”

“More like an interrogation!” Missy flipped the pillow aside and grabbed her glass of wine off the coffee table. She drew a deep sip and held on to her glass.

“I’m sorry this is so painful for you,” said Suzanne. “But you did show up on my doorstep tonight, so there must be something on your mind.” She sat back and waited for Missy to explain herself as Baxter and Scruff watched with solemn, worried dog expressions.

Missy seemed to weigh Suzanne’s words for a while. She put her wineglass down and said, “You’re right. I came here for a reason. The simple fact is . . . I need your help.”

“Okay,” said Suzanne, trying to put a note of encouragement into her voice, hoping to draw Missy out more.

“I went to the cemetery this morning because someone called and asked me to meet them there.”

“Explain please,” said Suzanne.

Missy drew a deep breath. “Lately, I’ve been doing volunteer work at the women’s shelter over in Jessup.”

“Harmony House? The one what’s-her-name . . . Sookie runs?” said Suzanne.