Eggs in purgatory, p.4
Eggs in Purgatory, page 4
part #1 of Cackleberry Club Mystery Series
“GENE tryin’ to weasel a story?” Toni asked once Suzanne reappeared in the Knitting Nest.
“He gave it a good shot,” said Suzanne. “But I didn’t have anything to tell him.”
“Good girl,” said Toni. “Hey, you still planning to schlep our receipts to the bank?” She held up a zippered black nylon envelope stuffed nearly to the breaking point.
“On my way,” said Suzanne.
“Twelve hundred eighty-seven dollars and thirty-eight cents,” said Toni.
“Wow,” said Petra. “Big bucks.”
“I counted it twice,” said Toni, “and made out a deposit slip, but you can do a recount if you want to.”
“Nope,” said Suzanne. “As I recall, you were the one who got the A in consumer math. I’m the geometry dropout.”
“Tried to put a square peg in a round hole?” asked Petra, a grin on her face.
“Still trying,” replied Suzanne.
DOWNTOWN Kindred still retained much of its hometown flavor. Feed store on the outskirts, old railroad depot that had been turned into the Kindred Historical Society, stretch of yellow brick buildings that, even with their tarted up neon signs, still exuded turn of the century charm.
Suzanne parked her car in front of Root 66 Hair Salon. It was run by Gregg and Brett, two gay guys who still did 1980’s style mall rat hair but were a hoot to gossip with. Gazing through the front window, Suzanne could see two tiny women hunkered down in the red vinyl salon chairs. Both had blue rinses in their hair and were being freshly coiffed for the coming week. This eighty plus dynamic duo was Minerva Bishop and Cleopatra Sunderd, known to everyone as Mrs. Min and Mrs. Cleo. They were pretty much the closest Kindred came to social dowagers.
Crossing the street, dodging traffic, Suzanne headed for the First Community Bank. She had about fifteen minutes until closing and didn’t relish the idea of keeping that much cash in her home overnight. For some reason, Bobby Wake’s murder had changed her notion of safety in Kindred.
“Hey! Suzanne!”
Suzanne turned to find Melissa Langston hurrying toward her. Known to everyone as Missy, she was Bobby Waite’s administrative assistant and a member of the town council. Missy was a blond, blue-eyed Iowa girl with creamy skin and an old-fashioned, movie star quality about her. Thick blond hair, worn in a pageboy, brushed her shoulders. She was thin yet managed to have voluptuous curves at the same time. In her early thirties, Missy was still unmarried but was reputedly dating the local undertaker.
“Missy, oh my Lord!” Suzanne greeted the woman with a big hug. In all the furor with the sheriff and the state crime lab and the extra traffic at the cafe, she’d forgotten entirely about Missy. “Honey, I’m so sorry about Bobby,” said Suzanne. They continued to hug each other, nodding, letting a few tears ooze out.
“When I heard you were the one who found him, I was going to call,” explained Missy. “But then Sheriff Doogie showed up, and things got so crazy.” She relaxed her embrace and straightened her shoulders, trying to look strong.
“You gonna be okay?” asked Suzanne.
Missy managed a smile and nodded her head in the affirmative. “Sure. Of course.” She dropped her voice low. “They’re releasing Bobby’s body tomorrow. Ozzie’s gonna take care of it.” Ozzie Driesden was the local undertaker, Missy’s sweetheart.
“So the funeral’s being planned,” said Suzanne. She
thought for a moment. “Have you talked to Bobby’s wife?” Bobby had a wife, Carmen Copeland, who was a very successful romance writer. Word had it that Carmen had a writing studio in the neighboring town of Jessup where she also taught an occasional creative writing course at Darlington College. With Bobby living in Kindred and Carmen over in Jessup, Suzanne suspected that Bobby and Carmen had fashioned a different kind of marriage. Different, anyway, from the kind she and Walter had.
“I spoke with Carmen on the phone yesterday,” said Missy. “But just for a couple of seconds. I think she’s in shock. Lord knows, everybody else seems to be.”
“That’s for sure,” said Suzanne. She suddenly wondered if Sheriff Doogie was going to turn his beady eyed gaze on Bobby’s wife. Or if he had any reason to.
“Missy,” said Suzanne, recalling Sheriff Doogie’s questions about the tire treads, “did Bobby ever have any dealings with Charlie Pepper?”
Missy’s front teeth worried her lower lip. “Why are you asking?”
“Because Sheriff Doogie asked about him. And Charlie made a delivery yesterday right before Bobby came by. Not that it means anything ...”
“There was that Chemco lawsuit,” said Missy.
“Refresh my memory, would you?” said Suzanne, more than a little interested now.
Missy glanced to either side of them, making sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “Last year this Chemco Fertilizer truck slammed into Charlie’s delivery van out on Highway 212. Charlie came to Bobby because he wanted to sue Chemco. His truck wasn’t all that damaged, but he claimed the chemicals got all over his truck, and it wasn’t fit for deliveries anymore. He also claimed whiplash and bodily injuries.”
“So Bobby filed a lawsuit,” said Suzanne. “And I take it things didn’t go well?” All this had obviously taken place before he’d become their egg man.
“Charlie got his truck fixed,” said Missy, “but that was about it. He claimed neck and back injuries, said they were absolutely killing him, but nothing ever showed up in the X-rays and medical reports.” Missy shook her head. “Then one of the insurance investigators made a video of Charlie playing golf a couple of weeks after the accident.”
“Bet that didn’t help Charlie’s case,” said Suzanne.
“Shut it down completely,” said Missy. “So Charlie got real upset with Bobby, claimed he didn’t fight hard enough. Charlie wanted some kind of jury trial, but the suit got kicked over to mediation.” Missy rolled her eyes. “You know, pretend judges.”
“I can’t imagine Charlie held a grudge over that.”
“You don’t know Charlie,” said Missy.
Maybe I don’t, Suzanne thought to herself. The man barely spoke a word to them when he delivered eggs. And they say it’s always the quiet ones ...
Missy drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “But still, I can’t see Charlie committing murder.”
“Did Sheriff Doogie ask you about this?” said Suzanne.
Missy nodded. “Oh yeah. And he’s gonna come over again first thing tomorrow and go through all of Bobby’s files, see if he can glean any sort of information that might point to a motive.”
“That’s good,” said Suzanne.
They stood together in lengthening shadows, each lost in their own thoughts.
“Anyway,” Missy said, “I’m sure glad I ran into you.” She blinked away a tear. “Like I said, I was going to call...”
“If you need anything, just give me a jingle, okay?” offered Suzanne. “Maybe you want to talk or just need someone to help figure things out at the office.” Along with Bobby, Missy had been a godsend when Walter had died. Suzanne would never forget her kindness.
“Thanks,” said Missy. “That means a lot to me.” She sniffled. “You know, Bobby had almost three dozen active clients. They’re all clamoring for answers, and I don’t know what to tell them.”
“What about Bobby’s partner?” asked Suzanne.
“Since he’s semiretired, he’s probably gonna stay that way,” said Missy. “I can help clients with some things, but I don’t have a law degree ... I’m a paralegal at best.” Tears suddenly welled in her eyes. “I’ve no idea what’s gonna happen to his law practice ...”
Suzanne dug in her handbag for a Kleenex, passed it to Missy.
“Thanks.” Missy blew her nose, sniffled, and blew again. “I feel like I’m being pulled in a million directions.” Another tear trickled down her cheek. “Carmen’s near hysterical, Sheriff Doogie is all over me, clients are calling like mad, and... and ...” She looked up at Suzanne. “I still haven’t given you that chocolate chip cookie recipe I promised you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Suzanne. “In fact, it’s the last thing you should worry about.”
Chapter Seven
“YOU’RE back,” said Toni as Suzanne threaded her way through the now empty Cackleberry Club. “I already fed Baxter. One cup of dry kibble and a dollop of non-fat yogurt. Was that right?”
. “Baxter would eat a carburetor if you drizzled yogurt on it,” said Suzanne. She glanced out the kitchen window where Baxter was snoozing again, his muzzle positioned in a small puddle of fading sunlight. “So, how can I help?” The reading groups that had been cancelled last night were reconvening tonight. At least they hoped folks would show up. This was a fairly new event for the Cackleberry Club, and Suzanne hadn’t really helped out before.
Toni pulled off her apron and ran a hand through her shaggy mane of hair. “If you could just man the Book Nook for the first twenty minutes or so, that would be great. People get here, they usually browse around, find a couple books that interest them. Then we’ll get the two groups going. I’ll be leading Romance in the Book Nook, and Heather King’s gonna do Mystery in the Knitting Nest. Anyway, once discussions are under way, give it forty-five minutes or so, then set out the scones and tea on the counter. We’ll take our break when you give the high sign.”
“Sure,” said Suzanne. “No problem.” She was restless anyway, and puttering around the kitchen always calmed her down. She wandered back, pulled a clean white apron from the cupboard, washed her hands, and then opened the double doors of their large cooler. Suzanne grabbed butter, milk, powdered sugar, and vanilla, measured everything into a saucepan, stirred it over medium heat, watched as it thickened and turned into a nice, creamy icing. Dipping a clean spoon into the mixture, she tasted, Darn near perfect. Okay, now for the fun part. Using a silver butter knife, Suzanne layered a thin coat of glaze onto the three dozen miniature chocolate scones that Petra had baked earlier. She let the glaze drip down in what she thought was a lovely freestyle technique, then arranged the finished scones on a large silver platter and draped a hunk of plastic wrap over the top. So far so good.
When the first book club members began to arrive, Suzanne hustled into the Book Nook to man the cash register. Business was brisk for about fifteen minutes as customers milled about, buying books and asking a few oblique questions about Bobby Waite’s murder. Then the book club members broke into their respective groups and settled down to the business at hand.
Suzanne headed back to the kitchen to start her tea. She selected four white china teapots and measured out fresh jasmine tea leaves into two of the pots. She studied the tins lining the kitchen shelf and decided on a black currant tea, a rich, aromatic tea she knew would be a lovely complement to the chocolate, for the other two pots. She took her time, enjoying the aroma of the fresh tea, munching a scone, and chasing it down with a cold glass of milk. She dug out twenty cup and saucer sets, carried them out to the counter, then made it all look pretty by arranging them around a vase of daisies.
Finally, Suzanne set her water to boiling. When it was almost at the stage where bubbles were beginning to form, she poured her hot water gently over the tea leaves to steep. Then she carried the tea and scones out and set it all on the counter.
Even though they were supposedly taking a break, the book club members, ladies mostly, seemed to carry on their discussion while enjoying the refreshments. Suzanne wound her way through the tables, pouring refills, offering seconds on scones, stopping to chat whenever there was a familiar face.
On her final pass, she overheard two women talking about Carmen Copeland, Bobby’s wife. Curious, Suzanne sidled over to listen.
“She already had her house up for sale,” said the first woman.
“House? I didn’t know she had a house,” said the second woman. “I was under the impression it was more of a writing studio.”
“Oh no, it’s a great big Victorian thing. Very grand with lots of scrollwork and gingerbread cutouts. She lives there.” This was accompanied by raised eyebrows and an elaborate eye roll.
Suzanne wandered into the Book Nook, pondering the woman’s words. Carmen Copeland was in the process of selling her house? Did she just not need it anymore? Or was she in the process of moving away? And how would Bobby’s death affect her plans?
Drifting over to the Romance section, Suzanne ran a finger along the spines of some of Carmen’s books. Love in Peril, The Daffodil Queen, and Splendor Island. She noted the back-to-back curlicued Cs that had become Carmen’s logo. Opening her most recent offering, Fanciful Love, Suzanne scanned the titles in Carmen’s backlist and decided that Carmen probably earned quite a bit of money from her bestselling romance novels. Probably a lot more dough than Bobby had earned. Probably (and Suzanne knew she was letting her imagination run a little crazy here) more money than Carmen would ever collect from any life insurance policy she’d had on Bobby.
Suzanne thought about that for a minute.
She was pretty sure she’d read somewhere that a high percentage of murders were committed by unhappy spouses. In most cases, however, it was the husband doing away with the wife, not the other way around. Of course, there were always exceptions to that rule.
Suzanne stared at a Reading Is Right! poster for a few moments, then shook her head as if to clear it. What evil twist had her mind just taken, anyway? Trying to work up Carmen as a suspect in her own husband’s murder? That wasn’t particularly fair. Chances are, the poor woman was at home right now, prostrate with grief over her husband’s death.
“Sure she is,” she whispered aloud. “Any woman would be.”
It was dark by the time Suzanne got the kitchen cleaned up and loaded Baxter into the car. She stood for a moment, gazing out across the lush, dark wave of soybeans and caught the occasional flash of tiny, flying beacons: fireflies. Lovely little critters. Overhead, stars twinkled back in solidarity, looking like a great sequined dress draped across the night sky.
Voices raised in joyous song carried faintly on the warm evening breeze. The Journey’s End Church was having their Wednesday night prayer meeting.
Suzanne started her car and nosed around to the front of the building. Cars were parked every which way, so she eased out carefully. Just as she was about to pull onto the highway, she saw headlights coming at her from the right. Fast. She did the smart thing and waited.
Like a bullet, a pickup truck flashed by. And right on its tail, a dark SUV, running full bore, its headlights off.
What the heck? The SUV is chasing that truck? Sure looked like it to me.
Curiosity sank its talons into Suzanne, and she tramped down on the accelerator, taking off after them.
She caught up with the racing vehicles about a mile down the road. The pickup had slowed slightly and was slaloming all over the road, weaving dangerously from one lane to the other. The SUV was still hard on its tail.
Suzanne dug in her purse for her cell phone, punched in 911. This was a bad situation. A professional intervention was needed.
Just as the dispatcher at the law enforcement center answered, Suzanne saw red taillights flare, bounce hard to the left, then disappear down a steep embankment. They reappeared a moment later tracing a perfect red arc.
“The truck’s flipped over!” she shouted into the phone and to Baxter, who was bouncing like a manic rocking horse behind her, panting, wheezing, hanging his big head over the front seat. Drool soaked her right shoulder, hot doggy breath warmed her neck. “Highway 65, just a mile west of the Journey’s End Church!” she screamed to the dispatcher.
A hundred yards from the crash site, Suzanne slammed on her brakes and rocked to a hard stop. Peering into darkness, she saw the dark SUV idling by the side of the road.
Had the driver scrambled down the embankment to give aid to the pickup driver? Had she just imagined there’d been a chase?
She identified herself to the dispatcher, repeated her location, then shoved the gearshift into park. Jumping from her car, Suzanne ran toward the accident scene. Someone needed help!
She’d gone barely ten yards when a sharp crack pierced the night and stopped Suzanne dead in her tracks.
She held her breath, listening, and finally picked up the sound of heavy panting, as though someone might be struggling to crawl out of the ditch. Then heavy footsteps hit the bream, scuffing gravel.
“Hello?” she called out, suddenly unsure. There were no streetlights out here, and the summer darkness seemed thick and oppressive.
There was a dull click and then, like some terrible, mechanized mosquito, a bullet whined past her left ear.
Shooting at me? The notion hit her in a blinding flash and seemed utterly preposterous. But her survival instinct kicked in and telegraphed Hit the ground to her stunned brain. Suzanne threw herself face down on the pavement, grimacing as gravel and grit bit into her palms and stung her knees. Rolling backward a few turns, executing a strange sidekick crawl, she scrambled like mad and came up on the far side of her car.
Baxter was a crazy dog, barking frantically, throwing himself at the windows. Suzanne was fearful the next bullet would be aimed directly at him.
She jerked open the back door, cursing the dome light, and threw her arms around Baxter’s furry neck. Fighting him, pulling him to the floor, she crawled in and huddled low, pulled the door closed.
As she lay there struggling with the dog, trying to keep him down, a second bullet ripped into her windshield with a tremendous thunk!
Dear Lord, thought Suzanne, her heart beating a timpani solo in her chest, not this way. Please, not this way. Pulling herself into a ball, she fumbled in the safety kit she kept in her car. Her fingers skittered across a small Maglite, then wrapped around a roadside flare that looked like a big firecracker. Could it be used as a weapon?
As her ears registered another faint whine, Suzanne ducked reflexively, certain another bullet would come blasting at her. But it was the whine of a far-off police siren. Sheriff Doogie or one of his deputies was on the way.
