Bedeviled Eggs

by Laura Childs

  “Employees?” said Suzanne. “You mean Toni and Petra?”

  “You suspect us?” shrilled Toni.

  “Whatever.” Doogie shrugged. “You got other people working here, too, don’t you? You’re a big hoodoo enterprise now, what with all your little nooks and crannies and books and yarns.”

  “We have a busboy who helps out,” said Toni. “And once in a while Kit Kaslik pinch hits as a waitress. ‘Course most of the time she’s workin’ as an exotic dancer out at Hoobly’s, so I think you can rule out any concealed weapons...”

  Suzanne placed her hands firmly on Toni’s shoulders. It was their super-secret, nonverbal, BFF code that basically meant Time to shut up, sweetie.

  Thankfully, Toni did.

  “I’ll have the tape pulled down soon’s I can,” Doogie told Suzanne. He hitched at his belt, shifting gun, flashlight, keys, and what looked like a thermos bottle. “But I have to follow procedure.”

  “Excuse me, Sheriff?” said one of the paramedics. He was a thin-faced man whose nametag read Pauley. “This here’s some wicked-looking arrow.”

  Suzanne recognized the paramedic as Sid Pauley. Pauley had once worked at a local hardware store, mixing paint and measuring out lengths of rope and chain. Now that the big Save Mart had set up shop on the edge of town, edging out local businesses, Pauley had probably found steadier income as a paramedic.

  Doogie walked over and made an acknowledging sound. “Arrow cut clean through,” he told Pauley. He shook his head in a sort of tacit acknowledgment of the grim reaper. “You fellas know anything about bow and arrow hunting?”

  The other paramedic, Dick Sparrow, leaned in to take a closer look. He snapped on latex gloves and, with practiced fingers, gently lifted Peebler’s head, letting it loll in his hands as he inspected the protruding arrow. Then he lowered Peebler’s head back down to the ground and touched an index finger to the metal part between the dead man’s eyes. Sparrow looked up at Doogie, concern mingled with interest. “That’s no ordinary arrow, Sheriff,” he observed. “It’s from a crossbow.”

  Chapter Three

  “A crossbow,” said Petra. She was standing at her enormous black industrial stove, dropping silver-dollar-sized pancakes onto the sizzling grill. It was Eggs Mornay Monday at the Cackleberry Club, so she was also stirring a pan of cheese sauce, adding fistful after fistful of freshly grated Swiss cheese. Suzanne and Petra had just filled her in on last night’s bizarre incident.

  “A crossbow with a carbon arrow,” said Toni, as she laid out large oval-shaped white platters, the better to accommodate the Cackleberry Club’s generous servings. “At least that’s what one of the ambulance guys thought.”

  “Sounds nasty,” said Petra, as she flipped a line of golden pancakes. She turned, gave a little grimace, and focused on Suzanne. “So what did Doogie think? Possible hunting accident?”

  “Not unless someone was hunting white-tailed deer at night,” said Suzanne. She dreaded the idea of someone skulking around the Cackleberry Club, stalking prey through a night scope. Or maybe she’d just seen too many movies where crazy Bruce Willis-type international hired killers peered through scopes and assassinated heads of state. Then jumped off rooftops and hang-glided away like bats in the night

  “What about that herd of wild boar that’s been tromping around the countryside, ripping up gardens and scaring people silly?” asked Petra. “Maybe some hunter had been trailing them. He thought he was going to nail one, but made a terrible mistake.” She nodded to herself, liking her theory. “The hunter hit Peebler instead, then got scared and ran away.” She looked up with a slightly hopeful look. “It could have been a hunting accident.”

  “Something tells me,” said Suzanne, “that our shooter didn’t have a pig roast in mind.”

  “What’s really important,” responded Petra, “is that you and Toni had a guardian angel watching over you. That neither of you were injured or killed.”

  “Or Baxter,” said Suzanne. The loss of her four-legged, furry companion would have been too much to bear. Especially since it hadn’t been quite a year since Walter’s death.

  Petra heaped hash browns onto platters, added short stacks of pancakes, then placed two maple-flavored pork patties next to each stack. Satisfied with her arrangements, she wiped her hands on her apron. “Murder?” she asked, glancing up at Suzanne, voicing the one word they’d all jigged and danced around.

  “That’s the notion swirling in Doogie’s brain,” said Suzanne. She nodded toward the back door. “He’s out there right now, scuffling around in the dust, searching for clues.”

  “Working up a hefty appetite, too, I’ll bet,” said Petra. Petra was an imposing gal of fifty who enjoyed fly-fishing, knitting, quilting, and feeding people, not necessarily in that exact order. Her passion for food had come early in life. She’d been the only nine-year-old kid oh her block who preferred reruns of Julia Child over episodes of Scooby-Doo.

  Toni balanced three platters of food on her left arm, then grabbed another with her right hand. She gave Suzanne a worried look and asked, “Have you told Petra about Jane?”

  Suzanne shook her head while Petra, who’d begun sifting ingredients for another bowl of pancake batter, suddenly froze,

  “What about Jane?” Petra asked in a chilly voice.

  Toni answered. “I think Doogie’s going to be taking a hard look at her. Especially after last night’s little shouting match.”

  Petra’s brows knit together. “You told Doogie about that? Why on earth would you even mention it?”

  “We kind of had to,” said Toni. “Doogie wanted to know what Peebler was doing at the Cackleberry Club and...”

  “You didn’t have to tell him about their silly little squabble,” Petra interrupted. “You could have said that Peebler was here for the read dating event and just left it at that.” She shook her head. “I’m positive their little tiff was completely unrelated to the murder. Jane would... Jane would never!”

  Suzanne tried to be diplomatic. “Petra, I know Jane is very dear to you.”

  “Yes, she is,” Petra said, sniffling. “She’s one of my closest friends. When Donny was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Jane never left my side. She went with us to all the doctor’s appointments and even drove us to the Mayo Clinic for a second opinion.”

  “But Peebler’s death, which really does look like murder, is a black mark against the Cackleberry Club,” Suzanne told her. “And we don’t want that hanging over our heads. So the sooner everything’s cleared up the better.”

  “Still,” said Petra, “Jane’s my friend, just like you and Toni are. You know I’d never give Doogie any reason to suspect either of you.” Petra stopped talking and clutched her stainless-steel bowl, deciding to take her anger and frustration out on the dry ingredients. As she attacked the batter-to-be with a balloon whisk, her swirling circles carried so much force Suzanne was afraid she’d dent the metal.

  Suzanne tried her best to comfort Petra. “Jane and Peebler were arguing, Petra. And believe me, everyone heard them. So it’s better Doogie learned it from us first. That way we can run interference.”

  Petra’s circles got smaller and her breathing relaxed. “I suppose you’re right.” She glanced up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to fly off the handle like that.”

  “Hey,” said Toni, “we’re friends, remember? No need to apologize.”

  “Thank you,” said Petra, as the bell over the front door jingled, signaling the arrival of more customers.

  “Dang, it’s a busy morning,” said Toni, bumping her hip against the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the cafe-. “And I better deliver this stuff before it goes cold!”

  Alone with Petra, Suzanne asked, “You okay?”

  Petra nodded vigorously. “Better now, yes.”

  “We’ll get this thing figured out,” said Suzanne.

  Petra lifted a corner of her white apron and touched it gently to her eyes. “Promise?”

  “Promise,” sa
id Suzanne, meaning it.

  Out in the cafe, Suzanne grabbed a couple of coffeepots and started pouring refills. French roast for most, Sumatran for the more daring of the coffee drinkers. As she slipped between tables, she noted that every seat in the house was occupied, including the wobbly stools lined up against their vintage marble-and-wood counter. If another hungry body arrived, they’d just have to cool their heels on the front porch.

  But something funny was going on, too. Many of the customers had finished eating, but were lingering longer than normal over their cups of coffee. There was also a low buzz of conversation and more than a few furtive eye darts.

  Oh man, they’re talking about Peebler. About the murder. Well, that’s not good.

  Hurrying to the front door to greet an elderly couple who’d just arrived, Suzanne said, “It’ll be just a few minutes for a table.” Then decided a bit of friendly chitchat would make them feel welcome as they waited. “What brings you to the Cackleberry Club this morning?” she asked in a breezy tone.

  “We heard on the radio about...” the man began excitedly, until his wife gave him a determined elbow jab in the ribs.

  “Breakfast,” the woman finished in a brisk tone.

  Suzanne groaned inwardly. The Cackleberry Club’s unfortunate connection to the murder was being broadcast across small-town airwaves, in other words, via word of mouth.

  Toni, who’d heard the exchange, strolled past Suzanne and said in passing, “By lunchtime we’ll have ‘em lined up outside the door. Folks are just getting curiouser and curiouser.”

  Suzanne nodded in agreement. What happened to the good old days when a murder kept people away from a place? Ah, but those days were probably long gone, given today’s penchant for ripped-from-the-headlines stories and lust for true crime with all the gory details tossed in for good measure.

  When a table of four finally left, Suzanne quickly cleared away dirty dishes, wiped it down, and set it up for the elderly couple.

  “Here you go,” said Suzanne, offering the husband and wife a set of menus.

  “You got eggs for breakfast?” the old man asked.

  “Absolutely,” she told him. “There’s our special Eggs Mornay as well as eggs Benedict, toad in the hole, frittatas, Eggs in a Basket, and even Slumbering Volcanoes.”

  “Why so many kinds of eggs?” asked the woman.

  Suzanne gave a slow reptilian blink. Don’t get out much? was the answer that bubbled up inside her brain. Instead she said, “Well, this is breakfast and we are the Cackleberry Club.”

  Zipping back to the old brass cash register to ring up a check, Suzanne noticed that the ruffled pink Depression-era candy dish, normally filled with mints, was empty. And the stack of Quilt Trail brochures that also sat there had been reduced to a single copy.

  Gotta get some more, Suzanne told herself, snatching up the colorful tri-fold brochure and sticking it in her apron pocket. Then, ten minutes later, when things were finally under control, Suzanne stepped into the Book Nook and dialed the number for the Logan County Historical Society.

  Arthur Bunch, the director, answered the phone himself. “Logan County Historical Society.”

  “You’re in early,” said Suzanne. There was dead air for a moment, then she continued, “Hey, Arthur, this is Suzanne from the Cackleberry Club.”

  “Oh hello,” said Bunch, sounding cheery now.

  “Just wanted to tell you that we’re down to our last copy of the Quilt Trail map. Looks like you might have a hit on your hands.”

  “Sure hope so,” replied Bunch. “I’ve been putting in twelve-hour days but loving every single minute. The buzz we’re getting over here is terrific. I think lots of folks are planning to drive the trail!”

  “It’s a great thing for the county,” said Suzanne, “to showcase all our historic buildings.” She hesitated. “I hate to add to your workload, but we sure could use some more of those brochures. We’ve been talking the Quilt Trail up like crazy and, of course, Petra’s, completely gung ho.”

  “I’ll get some to you as soon as possible,” said Bunch. “Wait a minute, are you by any chance serving cranberry almond scones today? The kind with Devonshire cream?”

  “It’s our autumn special all this month,” Suzanne told him. “Along with wild rice soup and pumpkin pie.”

  “Then I might just bring those brochures over myself,” enthused Bunch. “And I won’t even feel guilty about deserting my post, I’ll just consider it multitasking.”

  Arthur chuckled loudly and Suzanne could almost see his trademark bow tie moving up and down his wiry throat in the process. Arthur Bunch was a gentle soul, with his bow ties and serviceable, tweedy suits. He could have almost been cast in a 1950s sitcom as the good-hearted neighbor or even the slightly bumbling but well-intentioned dad.

  “See you soon, Arthur,” Suzanne responded. Gazing into the cafe, she saw that another table had come available. Springing into action, Suzanne rushed over and began clearing it off, vowing to one day hire a full-time busboy— one who didn’t have to be in school during their busiest hours.

  Then two more groups poured in, Petra hit the bell signaling for a pickup, and the phone rang. When it rains, it pours!

  Chapter Four

  “You grab the phone,” said Toni, “I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Bless you,” Suzanne murmured, speeding into the Book Nook and grabbing the phone. “Cackleberry Club,” she answered brightly.

  “It’s Gene,” said a raspy, male voice.

  Rats. Gene Gandle, the annoying reporter-slash-sales guy from the Bugle.

  “Is this for take-out?” Suzanne asked in her most professional-sounding voice, hoping Gene would take the hint that she was too busy to talk.

  “No, it’s for print, Suzanne. I’m not interested in placing an order. Inquiring minds want to know what happened at your place last night.”

  “Gene, we’re swamped. I don’t have time...”

  Gene plowed ahead anyway. “Give me a few minutes,” he wheedled. ‘Talking over the phone is a lot easier than my coming over and interviewing you in person. Think about it, do you really want a reporter asking questions about last night’s murder in front of your customers?”

  “Who says I’d give an interview?” Suzanne’s demeanor dropped a few degrees colder than frozen. “I have nothing to say to the press, so stop badgering me.”

  “You want me to put that in the newspaper?” Gene asked. “Sounds awfully suspicious, like you’ve got something to hide. How do you think readers will react? Or your customers?”

  Suzanne gritted her teeth and stared at a needlepoint on the wall that said, My disposition is subject to change without notice. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

  Gene’s voice was silky smooth now. “Not in the least, Suzanne. Just trying to cobble together a plausible story. I already talked with a few of your customers from last night. Your read dating folks.” He gave a sort of snort. “Now I’d like to get your view of things.”

  Suzanne hesitated. Truly, Gene Gandle was a boorish clown.

  “I’m on deadline,” Gene said, pressing.

  “Today’s Monday. The Bugle doesn’t come out until Thursday.”

  “I like to get a jump on things,” said Gene. “Just play fair with me, okay?”

  Suzanne’s eyes darted around, looking for some sort of excuse or escape. Anything to get her out of this conversation. It came in the suddenly blessed form of Sheriff Roy Doogie, walking into the cafe and plopping himself down heavily at the counter.

  “Can’t talk now, Gene,” Suzanne told him. “The sheriff just arrived.”

  Speeding into the cafe Suzanne grabbed a pot of coffee out of Toni’s hand and slipped behind the counter. She put a large white ceramic coffee mug in front of Doogie and poured out a steamy cup of coffee. Then she placed a knife and fork on top of a blue gingham napkin and set a glass of fresh ice water beside it. Doogie reached for the glass and gulped the water down immediately.

 
As he wiped his lips with his sleeve, Suzanne said, “Find any evidence out there, Sheriff?” She had to know, she couldn’t wait!

  Doogie gave a surreptitious glance around, then nodded.

  “Really?” Suzanne was suddenly heartened. Maybe there was a plausible explanation for last night. Maybe Doogie would actually solve the case!

  Then the pass-through door slammed open and Petra called out, “You want something, Sheriff? I saw you grubbing around out back and figured you might have worked up an appetite.”

  “Anything you got is good,” said Doogie.

  “Anything?” Suzanne asked, lifting an eyebrow. Usually Doogie was picky beyond belief.

  “Eggs Momay is good,” spoke up Doogie. ‘Taters if you got ‘em.” Doogie hadn’t earned the moniker “bottomless pit” for nothing.

  “Pumpkin pancakes?” Petra asked.

  “Sure,” enthused Doogie.

  “Coming right up,” said Petra.

  Doogie scratched the back of his neck. “Why the heck you got a cornfield growing directly out back? I stumbled through it and almost got myself lost!” He didn’t look happy. “Lots of bugs in there, too.”

  “It’s a corn maze,” Suzanne told him. “For Halloween.” Then she leaned across the counter and spoke in a low voice with very deliberate inflection, “What... did... you... find?”

  Doogie dug a hand into his pants pocket, jingling around what sounded like keys and coins. Finally he pulled out a blue plastic key card and slid it across the counter to Suzanne.

  Suzanne stared at it “A key card?”

  “Looks like,” said Doogie.

  “You think it’s from the motel up the road?” she asked.

  “Wrong color,” said Doogie.

  Suzanne’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t ask the sheriff how he knew what color the Super 8 key cards were. Doogie was a widower and what he did on his own time was his private business.

  “Besides,” Doogie added, “it looks a little high tech for a motel. See that little magnetic strip?” He scratched at it with a stubby fingertip.