Bedeviled Eggs

by Laura Childs

  “I looked awful hard,” said Doogie, “and basically came up with squat.”

  Suzanne thought for a second. “What if you had a fresh pair of eyes?”

  Doogie pulled a hanky from his back pocket, blew his nose loudly, then stared at her. “What are you saying? Or, rather, what are you asking?’

  Suzanne met his gaze evenly. “I think you know.”

  Doogie swiped at his nose again and beetled his brows. “Probably not a good idea. Not exactly by the book.”

  “No, it’s not,” agreed Suzanne, as Toni came sauntering up.

  “Howdy do, Sheriff,” said Toni. “You need a refill?”

  “Nah,” said Doogie, patting his shirt pockets nervously. “Got to get moving. Don’t want folks to think all I do is sit around and guzzle coffee.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Toni, moving off.

  Doogie dug in his pocket and produced a couple of crinkled dollar bills. He set them on the counter, then slipped off his stool and sauntered away. “Be seeing you, Suzanne,” he called over his shoulder.

  Suzanne frowned. This was the first time she’d ever known Doogie to pony up for coffee as well as leave a tip. Oh well, first time for everything.

  She reached for the money, started to crumple the bills in her hand, then stopped. Hiding under Doogie’s dollar bills was a shiny brass key.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  “Ginger carrot,” said Suzanne, extending a tray filled with luxe little tea sandwiches made with cream cheese, sweet ginger paste, and grated carrots.

  The size-four woman picked one up gently and placed it on her small bone-china plate. Moving on, she proceeded to debate over the tray of goodies Suzanne had arranged on the nearby table. Then extended a manicured hand and plucked a single, perfect cherry tomato.

  So not fair, Suzanne thought Holding her tray, dressed in black slacks, white blouse, and long black Parisian waiter’s apron, she felt like the ugly stepsister. All around her, skinny, fashionable women were sipping cabernet and swooning over cashmere sweaters, Marc Jacobs boots, and tight blue jeans.

  Where did all these fashionable women come from? she wondered. Not from Kindred; couldn’t be from Kindred. Women here were normal. They wore regular-sized skirts and blouses and sweaters and ate actual food. They were gracious without being picky and definitely didn’t wear the type of filmy, frothy clothes that fluttered expensively on Carmen’s display of black-lacquered mannequins.

  “Are we having fun yet?” Missy asked. Missy was Melissa Langston, Carmen Copeland’s boutique manager and

  current whipping girl. Missy was a midwestern corn-fed, blue-eyed blond with pale skin and a lush figure. Although lately, that corn-fed figure was looking decidedly more sprouts-and-greens.

  “I have to hand it to Carmen,” said Suzanne. “She vowed to bring high fashion to Kindred and she did it.”

  “Alta moda,” agreed Missy, who didn’t always enjoy working for Carmen, but certainly seemed to love the shop itself.

  And who wouldn’t? Alchemy Boutique was a tour de force in style. Thick mauve draperies complemented plum colored walls and the carpeting looked like liquid pewter yet felt like a silk cloud. And the clothes! Oh my, they were something! Think Vogue magazine, Women’s Wear Daily, and Rodeo Drive all rolled into one. There were fluttering silk tops, black cocktail dresses, tight designer jeans from Citizens of Humanity, nipped navy blue blazers, and James Perse T-shirts. There was a display of suede handbags in raspberry red, dove gray, and pale blue. Plus silk scarves to twist casually around one’s neck, gigantic cocktail rings that looked like disco balls, leather bangle bracelets, gold chains, and a whole area devoted to flats, boots, and lethal stiletto heels.

  Suzanne had already put a few items on her own personal wish list—a pair of camel-colored suede booties with ruffled learner trim at the top, a pair of cigarette-leg Rock & Republic jeans, a raspberry sherbet-colored cashmere scarf. But of course! This was Cashmere and Cabernet, after all!

  “Would you like a glass of wine, Missy?” Suzanne asked, suddenly remembering that she was a working stiff today, not little Miss Shopaholic.

  “Carmen would kill me,” said Missy. “Especially since I have to honcho the informal modeling in a few minutes, then work the crowd to solicit orders for all the special trunk-show items.”

  “You sure you enjoy working here?” Suzanne asked. “If you ask me, working conditions seems a little Dickensian.”

  Missy gave a thin smile. “Oh, you don’t think twelve-hour days are the norm?”

  “Only if you’re the owner,” said Suzanne, “working your tail off in a start-up situation.”

  “Well, I’m not the owner and I’m still working my tail off,” said Missy.

  “You have skills,” said Suzanne. “I’m sure you could go back to being a paralegal.”

  “Maybe.” Missy shrugged.

  “It would be better than...”

  “Missy!” screeched Carmen, suddenly spotting her boutique manager and rushing over to them. Only it was more of a baby steps rush, since Carmen was wearing a tight black turtleneck dress with a black leather corset over it. To polish off her look, Carmen’s hair was pulled back severely and her eyes were rimmed in dark kohl.

  “Oh-oh,” said Suzanne, “looks like trouble.”

  “You have to get the models dressed!” Carmen hissed.

  “Of course,” said Missy. “Right away.”

  Carmen grabbed Missy’s arm as she started to dash off. “And don’t let the fat girl wear the denim leggings,” said Carmen. “Give them to someone they might actually fit.”

  “She’s a size six,” said Missy.

  “Exactly,” said Carmen, “way too pudgy for leggings.” Carmen switched her focus to Suzanne. “And you,” she said, glaring. “Could you please pour some wine for my guests?”

  “Good gosh, Carmen,” said Suzanne, “I didn’t realize I was supposed to serve as bartender, too.”

  “Catering involves more than just standing around holding a tray of sandwiches,” said Carmen.

  “You think?” said Suzanne. Carmen reminded her of a dust devil, spinning wildly, kicking up huge amounts of dust and debris, but never really going anywhere.

  Carmen backed off then, turning a critical eye to the food, the line of sparkling crystal wineglasses, the bottles of ruby red cabernet. “Everything looks perfect, no?” she asked.

  “Yes, it does,” said Suzanne. “So you should be celebrating your triumph.”

  Carmen frowned and shook her head. “But such a dismal crowd,” she moaned. “I sent out something like fifty invitations, but only thirty-five people showed up.” She sighed, grabbed a tea sandwich, and took off like a jackrabbit.

  “She’s counting the flyspecks in the pepper,” Suzanne murmured to herself, then decided to shake it off. Carmen’s disappointment and anxiety, whether real or faux, wasn’t her problem. And thank goodness for that.

  Positioning herself behind the buffet table, Suzanne poured glasses of wine for the guests, used a pair of silver tongs to place miniature quiches and lobster and cucumber sandwiches on their plates, and tried her best to enjoy the event.

  As models pranced through the store, showing off the delightful duds, and Carmen and Missy did their best to buttonhole customers and elicit orders, Suzanne grabbed her cell phone and called the Cackleberry Club.

  Toni answered on the first ring. “Cackleberry Club.”

  “It’s me.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “The clothes are gorgeous, people seem to be spending money, and Carmen thinks it’s a flop.”

  “There you go,” said Toni”. “That’s the difference between Carmen’s attitude and ours. We sell eight toad in the holes for breakfast, it’s like breaking the bank in Monte Carlo.”

  “You are so off the hook.” Suzanne laughed.

  “Of course,” Toni said, cheerfully. “So, are you ready to suit up and hit that pumpkin patch?”

  “Give me forty-five minutes,
” said Suzanne. “I’m almost done here, but there’s something else I have to take care of.”

  Suzanne drove a long, looping, circuitous route to Chuck Peebler’s house, even though she knew it was silly to be paranoid. Who would suspect she was going to creepy-crawl his house? Nobody, of course. Still, for Doogie’s sake, she was determined to take precautions.

  After glancing into the rearview mirror about a hundred times, she’d only noticed one vehicle following her. And that was a Roto-Rooter truck that had peeled off one block back. Somebody’s sewer line obviously needing to be roto’ed and rooted.

  Suzanne was also well aware that Peebler’s house would be deserted. Peebler, being of the divorced persuasion, meant there was no grieving widow left to wander about. So she’d be free to... well, wander around.

  Crawling down Olive Drive, Suzanne hung a left on Essex Street. There it was, the third Cape Cod from the corner. A simple blue clapboard house, probably built in the fifties, that now looked a little forlorn and deserted. Luckily for Suzanne, the house had mature trees in the yard to help shield her movements from prying eyes. A nice fiery red oak, a grove of five straggly poplars, and two bushy cedar trees mat hunkered right along the driveway. So perfect.

  Swinging into the driveway, Suzanne nosed up to the garage, getting as close as possible. The better to slip in unseen and avoid any neighborhood snoops who might be gung ho lieutenants in the Neighborhood Crime Watch program.

  Suzanne gathered her purse, walked up to the steps, and knocked on the front door. As her left fist rapped sharply, the key in her right hand slipped into the lock. There was a slight hesitation, a subtle click, and then she was in. As the door pushed open, Suzanne smiled and nodded, faking a big smarmy greeting. If a nosy neighbor had seen her, it would appear someone was there to let her in.

  Stepping inside the dim house, Suzanne shut the door behind her. And locked it, just to be safe. Then she stood in the entryway and squared her shoulders, trying to get a vibe from the house.

  Dust motes twirled in the near darkness; a clock ticked in the stillness. Peebler had only been dead for a few days, yet it seemed as if he’d been gone forever. An odor of mustiness permeated the air, and an eerie stillness hung in the house. If Suzanne believed in ghosts, really believed, she would have said this house was mourning its owner.

  She walked slowly into the living room, flicked on a lamp, and surveyed the room. There was a beige sofa, two brown leather chairs with an old hobnail design around the arms, and a decent-looking walnut cocktail table covered with magazines. Last month’s issues of Time, Golf Digest, and National Geographic. She crossed a bright blue oriental rag that was pure acrylic and pulled open the drawer of an end table. It revealed an old TV Guide, two remote controls, and a dog-eared crossword puzzle book. Hot times at the Peebler household.

  Suzanne made her way into the kitchen, nervously expecting to find Peebler’s last meal, half eaten and rotting on the table, blowflies buzzing everywhere. But it was nothing like that. Dishes were stacked neatly in the dish drainer and the counters were remarkably free of the usual cookie jar-bread box-spice rack debris.

  A neat, tidy kitchen for a neat, tidy man?

  Not quite. Peebler’s last evening had been anything but tidy, his argument with Jane ruffling feathers and raising eyebrows. Then his bloody and bizarre murder at the hands of a crossbow-wielding killer. And no clues to point in any direction. So the last evening of his life was not exactly tied up nice and neat with a big red bow. No wonder Doogie had taken her up on an offer of a fresh pair of eyes.

  But was she really seeing anything?

  No. Not yet. So I better keep moving.

  Suzanne left the kitchen, walked down a narrow hallway, and entered a small room that had obviously served as Peebler’s office. A campaign poster was starting to unpeel from the wall. Stacks of flyers that had never been handed out, and never would be, sat piled on his desk.

  Settling into the swivel chair behind Peebler’s desk, Suzanne eased open all of the desk drawers for investigation. She took a pencil and stirred things around in each of the drawers, but nothing popped out at her. She ran her fingertips across files in the deeper file drawer, but they contained mostly household bills, insurance forms, and appliance warranties. Like that.

  Finally, Suzanne crept upstairs. With just two bedrooms and a small landing, it felt small, cramped, and warm. One bedroom was unused, obviously a guest bedroom of sorts with a twin bed and an ugly velvet tapestry of a deer in the forest decorating one wall. The other room was Peebler’s bedroom. A brown-and-white-checked quilt covered the queen-sized bed, a dresser and mirror hunkered against one wall, and the folding closet doors stood open.

  Suzanne figured George Draper had probably dropped by and hurriedly picked out Peebler’s best suit for the visitation and funeral.

  Now Peebler’s lying in that suit, six feet under.

  The notion chilled her. Made her want to turn and run pell-mell down the steps and out the front door to escape the claustrophobic aura of a dead man’s house.

  Instead, Suzanne gritted her teeth and stood her ground. She crossed to the closet, which smelled faintly of mothballs, and searched through the clothes. All conservative stuff, all brown. Just like everything else in the house.

  She pulled two boxes down from the top shelf, but they turned out to contain summer shoes. Not much on the closet floor, either. An old shoe-shine kit in a wooden box, a tennis racket with a few strings missing, and an electric fan. No lockbox, no secret compartment, no indication of an overhead crawl space.

  Suzanne took a few steps back and stared out a window. A gray car was parked across the street, someone in it. A neighbor? Or had someone tailed her? She pressed her nose to the window, then decided she’d better stick to the business at hand rather than let her paranoia run rampant.

  Peebler’s dresser held the usual clutter of guy crap. A cheap walnut jewelry tray contained tie tacks, loose change, random buttons and watch batteries, a tarnished silver ID bracelet, and a Jaycees pin.

  Looking at the pitiful assortment of stuff, Suzanne’s heart sank. Nothing in the house seemed to offer up an instant clue. Maybe this whole endeavor was a waste of time?

  She stared at herself in the dusty dresser mirror, wondering why she’d thought she could offer some unique insight. Why she believed her female intuition could ferret out a clue where Sheriff Doogie, a trained professional, couldn’t.

  Suzanne sighed, frowned, then reached up to place an index finger directly between her brows. She didn’t want those worry lines etched any deeper. Her 11 ‘s, as they had been referred to in an old issue of Glamour magazine that she’d perused at the dentist

  Taking a deep breath, Suzanne gazed at herself again. Better now. Smooth brow, no visible frown lines. Good to catch yourself. Good to...

  Suzanne’s eyes flicked toward a small sliver of yellow stuck in the corner of the mirror. It was right between the glass and the wooden oak frame, the same place one might stick a small photo. She reached a hand out and pulled the yellow sliver from its spot.

  Staring at the mini yellow Post-it note, she saw one world scrawled upon it Tortuga.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  “Your car or mine?” Suzanne asked. She’d arrived back at the Cackleberry Club around five thirty to find Toni waiting for her.

  “Jungle Cruiser is bigger,” said Toni, cocking a thumb toward the parking lot out front. “It’ll hold more pumpkins.”

  “Done,” said Suzanne.

  Toni slipped on a worn suede jacket and tucked her jeans into tanned, tooled cowboy boots. “Gonna be cold out there.” She wound a knit scarf around her neck.

  “Where are we going again?” Suzanne asked.

  Toni pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her jeans pocket and scanned it. “Out Hudson Road. By the old Lawson place.”

  “I have no idea where that is.”

  “You don’t remember old man Lawson? The guy who drops in once in a while, mumbling abo
ut fighting Nazis in the Ardennes?”

  “Oh sure,” said Suzanne.

  “And you know where Hudson Road is.”

  “Kind of,” said Suzanne. She had a vague notion that it was north of Kindred, but her own internal Google Earth program wasn’t pulling up any sort of detailed map.

  “Don’t worry,” said Toni. “Junior drew a map so there shouldn’t be any problem.”

  “Right,” said Suzanne, although it seemed like every day they’d encountered a new problem. Time for something to go off without a hitch? Oh, let’s hope so.

  They exited the Cackleberry Club, turning out lights and locking the door, then climbed into Toni’s car. She cranked the key in the engine, let her car rumble and belch for a few moments, then said, “Ready, Freddy?”

  With a few hard tugs, Suzanne managed to yank the frayed seat belt into proper position and snap it in place. “Let’s do it”

  Toni turned the heater knob to defrost and clicked on a cassette player that looked like it had been recently installed. Red, yellow, and green wires stuck out from below like colorful, techy spaghetti. “Aftermarket,” Toni told Suzanne. “It’s not exactly a state-of-the-art in-dash CD deck with MP3 and satellite radio, but at least we’ve got tunes.” Toni hit a button and “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” by Cyndi Lauper, suddenly blared from speaker panels in the doors. They grinned at each other, then joined in with Cyndi, bouncing and seat dancing their way out of town.

  “So Carmen was a real pain today?” Toni asked, as they rumbled past Pretty Paws Pet Grooming and the Video Hut, heading out of town.

  “Carmen’s always a trial,” Suzanne replied. “I still can’t figure how Missy puts up with her.”

  “Same way I put up with Junior.” Toni chuckled. “I never take him seriously.” She slowed down as they cruised across a narrow bridge, the boards crinkling beneath them, something clunking in the backseat

  “Speaking of Junior,” said Suzanne, “is that his stuff back there?” She turned slightly, caught sight of a large cardboard box bouncing away on the backseat.