Eggs in a Casket (A Cackleberry Club Mystery) (6 page)

“They’ve got a new executive director now,” said Missy. “A woman by the name of Marcia Schutte. Anyway, I’ve been helping with a program called Best Foot Forward. It’s a self-esteem program that deals with how to interview for a job and how best to present yourself in a business situation.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying that one of the women in the program called and said she needed your help?”

“I
thought
she did,” said Missy. “I was pretty sure I recognized her panicked voice.”

“But you don’t know exactly who made the call?”

“Not really.”

Suzanne stared at her, completely at a loss for words. “You went to the cemetery on the basis of what was pretty much an anonymous call? I find that hard to believe. Didn’t you think someone was trying to set you up?”

“They
did
set me up!” shrilled Missy.

“But what did this person—the woman on the phone—say to you?”

“She said she was in trouble and needed my help.”

“So you jumped in your car and took off not knowing who it was or what sort of trouble she was in? Jeez, Missy!”

“What can I say? I’m the trusting sort.” Missy looked deeply embarrassed. “I don’t even lock my door at night.”

Suzanne was dumbfounded. “Not even when Drummond was harassing you? Asking you to go on dates and such?”

Missy shook her head. “No.”

This didn’t make sense to Suzanne. So she decided to get right to the heart of the matter. “Do you know what happened to Lester Drummond this morning?”

“No! Of course not!”

“You didn’t have anything to do with his death?”

Missy was practically wild-eyed. “Absolutely not!”

“Did you see him lying in the grave?”

Missy’s eyes slid sideways and she hesitated for a moment. That’s when Suzanne knew she’d seen him. Missy hadn’t had a direct hand in Drummond’s death—but she’d certainly seen the man lying in the open grave.

“You
did
see him,” said Suzanne.

Missy took a gulp of wine and nodded. “I did. I was scared out of my wits, but in a strange way I felt relieved, too.”

“How so?” Suzanne asked. She was worried and curious about Missy’s conflicting emotions.

Missy hugged herself. “Drummond had become like a dangerous animal who’d slipped his collar. He was acting crazy, like he was on his own personal rampage.”

“Did Drummond ever threaten you?”

“Sort of,” said Missy. “But he was always cagey about it. Some nights when I worked late, he’d wait for me outside Alchemy. And it was always the same. Come have a drink with me. Let’s go out to dinner. Come over to my house for a relaxing evening, wink wink.” Missy shivered. “One night, when I told him to take a flying leap, he grabbed my arm so hard it left a big purple and green bruise.” She snuffled hard now and a tiny tear trickled down her cheek.

“Did you do anything about all this?” Suzanne asked. “Whip out your cell phone and call 911? Talk to Sheriff Doogie on the QT? I mean, you could have gotten a restraining order or something.”

Missy ducked her head and wiped her tears. “I didn’t. I know I should have acted right then and there, but I didn’t.” She sighed. “The truth of the matter is, I was embarrassed by the whole thing. I just wanted it to go away.”

Suzanne reflected on what Missy had just told her. Probably, there were any number of women who were embarrassed by unwelcome advances that escalated too fast, too violently. Unfortunately, many of the women who
didn’t
act sometimes suffered at the hands of angry husbands, boyfriends, or stalkers like Drummond. They died, quite literally, of embarrassment.

Leaning in urgently, Suzanne said, “You have to tell Sheriff Doogie about this. You have to lay this out logically, give him all the facts, and help him understand your mind-set. Explain what really happened.”

“I
did
tell him!” said Missy. “I went through the whole story with him but he didn’t believe me.”

“Then
I’ll
tell him.”

“Suzanne, please! You’ve got to do more than that!” Missy grasped Suzanne’s hand and squeezed it tight. “You’ve got to make him
believe
me!”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Really, you have to help me!” Missy continued tearfully. “You’re the only person I know who can help me!”

WITH
Petra attending the rededication ceremony at Memorial Cemetery this Friday morning, it was up to Suzanne and Toni to whip up some breakfast magic. Luckily, Suzanne had thought to bring in Kit Kaslik, a young woman who’d helped them out before, to wait tables in the café. So as Suzanne reigned supreme at the stove, frying strips of turkey bacon and flipping mounds of hash browns, Toni and Kit scribbled orders, poured coffee, and ferried out plates of pancakes, French toast, and Suzanne’s special breakfast BLT.

Wondering how Petra kept all the orders straight, Suzanne popped two orders of eggs and hash browns onto plates, then leaned down and called through the pass-through, “Pick it up!”

“Got it,” said Kit swinging by. She was a stunning young woman. Her almond eyes were tipped with full lashes, her hair had recently been colored a rich chestnut, and she possessed a lush body. Until six months ago, she’d made her living as an exotic dancer at Hoobly’s Roadhouse, a disreputable joint out on County Road 18. Now Kit was working odd jobs and attending medical reporting classes at a trade school over in Jessup. She’d also found herself a steady boyfriend. She was rehabilitated, as Petra liked to say.

“Hey, you’re pretty good at this cooking stuff,” Toni said as she bumped her way into the kitchen amidst a mélange of aromas that included fried onions, bacon cornbread, scones, and crazy-quilt bread.

“You think?” said Suzanne. She was secretly pleased that she was able to keep up with the morning mayhem as well as turn out a few pans of baked goods, too.

“Oh yeah,” said Toni. “You’re doing great. Plus you don’t yell at us like Petra does.”

“Petra doesn’t yell,” said Suzanne with a smile.

“Okay then,” said Toni. “Let’s just say you’re not quite as
enthusiastic
as Petra. You’re more—contained.”

“And that’s a good thing?” said Suzanne. She poured a mixture of eggs, cream, mushrooms, and red peppers into an omelet pan, swirled it all around gently, and said, “So how were the car races last night?” She figured a little light conversation might take her mind off worrying about Missy, which she’d been doing practically since she woke up.

“Noisy but actually kind of cool,” said Toni. “The whole evening was basically a series of stock car events.”

“And what’s that, exactly?” asked Suzanne.

“A bunch of junkers flying around an oval racetrack,” said Toni. “And then, of course, there was the requisite guzzling of beer and eating of hot dogs.”

“Fun,” said Suzanne as she tossed a handful of grated pepper jack cheese on top of her omelet.

“Junior was pretty much hysterical the entire time. He kept jumping up and down like a wild mongoose, spitting little hunks of peanuts as he screamed at the drivers.”

“Now there’s enthusiasm,” said Suzanne, shuddering inwardly.

Toni shook her head. “Junior surely does love cars. You know, he’s even bragging about entering his old Chevy Impala in a demolition derby?”

“Don’t let him,” said Suzanne. “He’ll just go and get himself killed. Or, worse yet, permanently paralyzed.”

“I know, I know! That’s exactly what I told him! Junior may be a fairly decent mechanic, but he’s not that skillful a driver. He never wears his glasses and his reaction time is shot to crap. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t think he even has a legal driver’s license.” Toni suddenly lifted her nose and sniffed. “What smells so dang good? Your bacon cornbread?”

“No, it’s Petra’s pork roast. She left me two full pages of explicit instructions on how to slow-cook it in a Dutch oven so we can serve pulled pork sandwiches for lunch.”

“Love it,” said Toni.

“Hey,” said Kit, popping into the kitchen suddenly. “Do we serve something called a Nest Egg?”

“Why?” said Toni. “Is somebody asking for one?”

Kit nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s a poached egg served in a popover,” said Suzanne. “But we’re not doing popovers today.”

Toni glanced at the top of the stove where Suzanne was working. “Looks like we’re not even doing poached eggs.”

“We leave the fancier stuff to Petra,” Suzanne explained to Kit.

“So just what’s on the chalkboard?” said Kit.

“That’s right,” said Suzanne. “Until Petra shows up and takes over for lunch, anyway.”

“Hey, Kit,” said Toni. “You heard about Lester Drummond getting killed and all, didn’t you?”

Suzanne glanced sharply at Toni, wondering where she was going with this loose talk.

Kit nodded eagerly. “I sure did. I also heard you guys were the ones who found him.”

“You heard right,” said Toni. She stuck her hands in her apron pockets, trying to look casual. “Say, didn’t you have some trouble with him? When you were dancing at Hoobly’s?” Kit’s career as an exotic dancer had concluded when Suzanne and Petra had a heart-to-heart talk with her and convinced her to pursue a more appropriate line of work. Which, in Kit’s case, was anything else.

Kit looked suddenly unhappy. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I could tell you stories about Lester Drummond that would curl your hair.”

Toni looked intrigued. “Really? Like what?”

“Oh,” said Kit, “for one thing, he was forever pestering the dancers.”

“I think Drummond pestered quite a few women,” Suzanne murmured.

“Like, what did he do?” asked Toni.

“He’d sit on the runway flashing a wad of cash and—”

“Kit,” said Suzanne, interrupting, “do you think you could help out again on Sunday? We’re hosting a formal tea for the Historical Society.”

“Sure, I think I could do that,” said Kit.

“Appreciate it,” said Suzanne.

“But what about . . . ?” said Toni.

Suzanne slid her omelet onto a plate, added two slices of turkey bacon, and handed it to Kit. “This is for the gentleman at table six, if you don’t mind.”

* * *

BY
late morning, the café had pretty much cleared out. This was the quiet time when a few of the Cackleberry Club regulars stopped by to grab an early take-out lunch or have a quick cup of coffee. Which meant Suzanne was pretty much freed from her kitchen chores and able to wander out to fix a nice cup of tea.

Just as she was brewing a pot of oolong, Dale Huffington sauntered into the Cackleberry Club.

“Hey, Dale,” said Suzanne. Dale Huffington was a behemoth of a man, one of the locals who worked at the Jasper Creek Prison, the private prison run by Claiborne Corrections Corporation that Kindred’s town council had hailed as a wellspring for new jobs when it opened a few years ago. “You just get off your shift at the prison?”

“That’s right,” Dale said as he slipped onto a stool at the counter.

“Fix you a cuppa?”

“Why not?” said Dale.

Dale was one of Suzanne’s recent converts. He’d once been a confirmed coffee-and-donuts type of guy. But, over a period of repeat visits to the Cackleberry Club, Suzanne had converted him to tea and scones. Dale was Suzanne’s bright spot among the men of Kindred, who tended to favor coffee, black, with six lumps of sugar along with bear claws, glazed donuts, and sticky buns.

Working quickly, Suzanne placed a small pot of Darjeeling tea in front of Dale along with a cup and saucer.

“Thanks, Suzanne.” Dale peeked under the teapot’s lid and decided to let his tea steep a minute longer.

“I suppose everyone out at the prison is all atwitter over Lester Drummond’s death,” said Suzanne.

“It’s all anybody’s been jawing about,” agreed Dale. “Guards, administration, inmates. Even the guys who are confined to their cells are passing kites.”

“What are kites?” Suzanne asked.

“Little folded-up notes,” said Dale. He poured out his tea in a golden stream, added two lumps of sugar, stirred gently, and took an appraising sip. “Good,” he said.

“You want a scone, too?” Suzanne asked. “We’ve got fresh-baked maraschino cherry scones.”

Dale’s right hand strayed unconsciously to the ample tummy that hung over the belt of his blue prison-issued slacks. “I shouldn’t. But . . . okay, you talked me into it.”

Suzanne plated a scone and added a small dish of Devonshire cream.

“You’re fairly close to Sheriff Doogie,” said Dale. “Does he have any idea what happened to Drummond? Or even a wild card notion?”

Suzanne wasn’t about to breathe a word about Missy. Instead she said, “I don’t think so. All I know is he is bringing in a forensic pathologist to examine Drummond’s body and run some tests.”

Dale looked surprised. “That so? That’s kind of big-time, isn’t it?”

Suzanne shrugged. “I guess.” She knew it was.

“They expect to find something unusual?”

“I suppose they expect to find cause of death,” said Suzanne carefully.

“It was murder, wasn’t it?”

“Probably,” said Suzanne. “But no one knows
exactly
how Drummond died.” She thought about the strange marks on his chest that Doogie had discussed with her. “Or if there are any clues that might lead to his killer.”

Dale ducked his head right, then left, then hunched forward slightly toward Suzanne. “I got a kind of theory on that.”

“Is that so?” Suzanne was suddenly dying to hear it.

“If I were going to go looking for suspects, I’d take a good, hard look at Karl Studer.”

Suzanne shook her head. The name meant nothing to her. “I don’t think I know who that is.”

“Sure you do,” said Dale. “Ornery-looking guy with long gray hair. Drives a red rattletrap pickup and makes his living selling firewood and poaching deer out of season.”

Thinking about it, Suzanne did recall a skanky-looking guy who favored camo shirts and vests and stumped around town looking generally unhappy.

“You probably saw him at Schmitt’s Bar or Hawley’s Place,” said Dale.

“Okay,” said Suzanne. “I guess I’ve seen him around.”

“Anyway,” said Dale, “his son, Dwayne, is incarcerated at the prison and old Karl pretty much hated Drummond with a passion.”

“Why?” Suzanne asked. “Drummond was just the warden, not the judge and jury that sent his son there.”

“Those facts don’t matter to Studer,” said Dale. “He isn’t your logical, linear thinker. The thing is, Studer lives right near that cemetery where Drummond was found.”

“He does?”

“As the crow flies anyway,” said Dale. “If Sheriff Doogie is still fishing around for a suspect, I’d recommend he go talk to Karl Studer.”

“He
is
looking at a number of suspects,” said Suzanne.

She wondered, could Studer be an actual suspect? Could he be Drummond’s killer? Was this mystery not such a big mystery after all? Could it all be wrapped up and tied with a bow in a matter of, well, minutes?

“If Doogie wanders in here,” said Dale, “you might want to put a bug in his ear.”

“I think I might do that,” said Suzanne.

* * *

WHEN
Petra finally blew into the kitchen just after eleven o’clock, they were all thrilled—and a little relieved—to see her.

“Whew,” said Toni, dumping a stack of dirty plates into the sink. “I’m sure glad you’re back.”

“Hey, it’s the Kitchen Queen!” said Suzanne. She was happy to relinquish her post at the stove. Better to work the front of the house where she could chat up the customers and keep things humming.

Petra smiled her crooked, knowing smile. “You guys couldn’t do it without me, could you?” She reached into her pocket for a tortoiseshell barrette and poked it into her short hair.

“Oh, we can do it, we just don’t
like
to do it,” said Toni.

“So tell us,” said Suzanne. “How was the ceremony?”

“Yeah, did anybody show up?” asked Toni. “Did you guys warble your little hearts out?”

“The cemetery rededication turned out to be quite lovely,” said Petra. “And surprisingly well attended.”

“I figured it would be,” said Suzanne. She decided there was nothing like the scene of a crime to ensure a full house.

Petra opened the oven door, peered at her pork roast, and smiled. “Lookin’ good. Smellin’ good, too.”

“I did everything exactly as you instructed,” said Suzanne.

“I bet you had to sit through all sorts of boring speeches,” said Toni, wrinkling her nose.

“There were a couple of speeches, yes,” said Petra, ever the diplomat. “But they were really quite moving, talking about the early settlers and how the people of Kindred have been tasked to carry on their hopes and dreams.”

“And what else?” said Toni. “Besides singing and speeches?”

Petra draped a red calico apron around her neck. “Oh, let’s see. One of the Boy Scout troops carried off a rather snappy flag ceremony, and the vets from the VFW gave a twenty-one gun salute.”

“Hah!” said Toni. “Considering what happened out there, maybe you shoulda had a twenty-one
stun
salute!”

“Toni!” admonished Petra. “That’s an awful thing to say.”

“I thought it was kind of funny,” said Toni.

“No, it just makes me sad,” said Petra.

“But even
you
didn’t like Drummond,” said Toni, backpedaling. “And you hardly dislike anyone!”

Suzanne stepped in. “At least the weather cleared a little and your choir was able to sing.”

“Thanks goodness,” said Petra. “After all the practicing we did.”

“What songs did you sing?” asked Suzanne.

“‘Shout from the Highest Mountain’ and ‘I Will Remember You.’”

“Nice,” said Toni. “The feel-good churchy songs.”

“I’m just glad the whole thing wasn’t cancelled,” said Suzanne. She knew a lot of people had been planning hard for this celebration and the nasty business with Drummond could have easily derailed it.

“I hope it’s going to be sunny and warmer tomorrow,” said Petra. “It would be nice to have the weather cooperate for the candlelight walk.”

“What’s that?” said Toni. “This is the first I’ve heard of any candlelight walk.”

“Don’t you read the
Bugle
?” asked Petra.

“Sometimes,” said Toni. “When they print, you know, horoscopes and winning lottery numbers and stuff.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “So what’s this candlelight walk all about, anyway?”

“It’s going to be very solemn and lovely,” said Petra. “There’ll be candles flickering throughout the old part of the cemetery and guides dressed in Civil War–era costumes to give tours and point out historic markers.”