Bedeviled Eggs

by Laura Childs

  “So sad,” said Petra, blotting at her eyes. “I just can’t imagine the agony Winnie is going through.” Winnie was Wilbur’s mama.

  Suzanne reached out and grabbed Petra’s hand, then Toni put one of her hands on top of theirs. Huddled together like that, they listened to the music and watched the family shuffle past, followed by at least fifty men in uniform.

  Doogie was standing by his cruiser when Suzanne walked up to him. His gray eyes looked tired and sad, but his shoulders were back and there was some pride in his carriage. He knew he’d be leading the funeral procession up to Resurrection Cemetery where Wilbur would be laid to rest.

  “It was a wonderful service,” Suzanne said, quietly.

  “He deserved it,” Doogie responded.

  “You’re leading the procession?”

  Doogie nodded. “We’re even doing a twenty-one-gun salute.”

  “I think Wilbur would be pleased,” said Suzanne.

  “The day after he was murdered,” said Doogie, “I issued a Sheriff’s Commendation.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  Doogie shook his head. “What would really be nice is if I could find his doggone killer.”

  “Sheriff,” said Suzanne, “we need to talk.”

  Doogie nodded. “I hear you. I got your message about the fighting dogs. I plan to follow up on that right away. According to my calculations, that dog kennel is something like two miles as the crow flies from where Wilbur was killed.”

  “I thought it might be close,” said Suzanne. “But we also need to talk about my little foray into Chuck Peebler’s house.”

  Doogie’s eyes swept the crowd, then he dropped his voice. “I figured if you found anything, you’d let me know.”

  “I’m letting you know.’’

  Surprise registered on Doogie’s face. “Hah?” Clearly he hadn’t expected her to find anything at all.

  “On the mirror in Peebler’s bedroom,” said Suzanne. “I found a yellow Post-it note.”

  Doogie stared at her more intently. “Okay.”

  “The word Tortuga was scrawled on it”

  Now the sheriff just looked confused.

  “Tortuga,” Suzanne repeated. ‘It means turtle in Spanish. You didn’t see the note when you were sifting through his house.”

  Doogie canted his head. “Apparently not.”

  Suzanne stared at him. She wasn’t sure how she’d expected him to react. Praise her for her eagle eye observation and catlike skills? Pat her on the back for a job well done? Or just stare with quizzical stoicism.

  “Tortuga,” Doogie said, finally, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I gotta tell you, in the scheme of things, it doesn’t exactly unlock any big mysteries for me.”

  “Maybe not,” said Suzanne, as she felt heat rush to her face. “But it’s what I’ve got, okay?”

  Today was also the morning Suzanne filled in at radio station WLGN.

  “Amazing,” said Suzanne, gazing at her reflection in the glass partition that separated her radio booth from the control room. “I look like a real DJ.” Then she glanced down at a sound board with hundreds of dials and gauges. “Uh-oh.”

  “Now all you have to do is act like one,” Wiley Von-Bank, the engineer, told her. He stood next to her, adjusting levels, pointing out the various call buttons and dials.

  “Crap “ said Suzanne, “I knew there was a catch.”

  “And when we go live in a few minutes,” said Wiley, “crap may not be the best word to use with our callers.”

  “Gotcha. So what exactly do I do?”

  Wiley got down to business and gave Suzanne a quick lesson about the board, the various dials, and what buttons to push.

  “And remember,” said Wiley, “broadcast tends to depress the emotions, so you need to be extra bright with your speech. Try to project over-the-top enthusiasm.”

  “Enthusiasm,” Suzanne repeated, a look of sublime panic on her face.

  “Don’t worry so much,” Wiley told her. “I’ll do the lead-in and control most of the broadcast from the studio next door. If there’s anything else you need to push or switch, I’ll let you know. But basically, job number one is

  to sit in that chair, be chatty and friendly, talk to callers, and not touch your cans.”

  “Watch it!” said Suzanne.

  “No,” Wiley said with a laugh, “your headphones. You gotta wear ‘em so I can talk to you. Get inside your head.”

  “Like I said, watch it.”

  “One minute,” said Wiley. Returning to his studio, he smiled at her through the glass, then pulled his microphone close to his mouth. “This is WLGN, your good neighbor in Logan County. It’s partly cloudy right now, but we’re hoping the sun will peep through. Sixty-one degrees in beautiful downtown Kindred, sixty-three over in Jessup. And time, once again, for Friends and Neighbors.”

  Wiley hit a button and produced a ten-second spurt of upbeat music that was a cross between salsa and country, then he pointed directly at Suzanne, giving her the cue to jump in.

  Suzanne took a deep breath, then went with the opening she’d practiced all morning... “Good mornnnnnning, Logan County!”

  With any luck, she figured she sounded like a passable morning DJ.

  “This is Suzanne Dietz,” she said, trying to sound bright, chirpy, and pitch-perfect, “filling in for the fantastic and vacationing Paula Patterson on your favorite Saturday morning talk show, Friends and Neighbors. As always, we’ll chat about whatever’s on your mind or whatever’s happening around our lovely county. Plus, I’d like to share a recipe or two from the Cackleberry Club. And in case you don’t know...”

  One of the call lights lit up immediately.

  A little shocked, Suzanne said, “Maybe you do know about the Cackleberry Club.” She quickly pushed the call button, exactly as Wiley had instructed her.

  “You’ve reached Friends and Neighbors? Suzanne said. “And you’re on the air!”

  “Paula?” an elderly female voice quavered.

  “No, this is Suzanne. Paula’s on vaca—”

  Click! The caller had hung up and none of the other lines were lit.

  Suzanne glanced over to see Wiley holding his sides, laughing hysterically.

  “While I’m waiting for your calls to pour in and light up this switchboard,” said Suzanne, “let’s talk about soup. As you know, there’s nothing better on a chilly autumn night than squash bisque with toasted croutons.”

  Suzanne gave a few quick details about the recipe and was pleased to see a call line light up. And then a second line.

  “Lots of calls coming in now... let’s see who this is.” She punched button number one.

  “Suzanne,” said a male caller, “I had that soup at your restaurant once and it was fantastic.”

  “Thanks so much,” said Suzanne, “love to hear that.” She pressed the second call line. “Hello? You a soup lover, too?”

  “I need some advice,” came a woman’s voice.

  “We do our fair share of advice here,” said Suzanne, hoping for an easy question. “What can I help you with?”

  “My husband’s retired,” said the caller, “but I still can’t get him to do any chores around the house. Do you know any tricks?’

  Hah, Suzanne thought. Do I dare? Why not?

  “The best way I know to get a guy to do something,” said Suzanne, “is tell him he’s too old to do it.”

  Canned laughter suddenly echoed in Suzanne’s ear and she noticed that Wiley was nodding and smiling encouragement at her now.

  “Next caller,” Suzanne said, breezily, her confidence growing by leaps and bounds.

  “Halloween’s coming,” said another woman caller, “and my ten-year-old son wants to come to your Cackleberry Club party as a character from that vampire show, New Moon. What do you think?”

  “Not sure,” said Suzanne. “But if you cross a vampire with a snowman you get frostbite.” More canned laughter echoed in her ear as Suzanne gave the
thumbs-up sign to Wiley.

  Next caller was a man. “I need your advice,” he said in a slightly muffled voice.

  “Okay,” said Suzanne. “We’ve been doling out lots of free advice this morning.”

  “I know this woman and she’s really quite nosy.”

  “I know a few folks like that myself,” said Suzanne. “Is she a neighbor?”

  “Not exactly,” said the man, “but, man, is she getting on my nerves.”

  “How so?” asked Suzanne, suddenly wondering if this call was really legit

  “She’s poking around where she doesn’t belong,” said the man. “Even sneaking into empty houses.”

  Suzanne straightened in her chair and a tingle ran down her spine. “The owner’s deceased?” she asked, her throat suddenly tightening up.

  “That’s right,” continued the man. “And the thing is, I need to warn this woman. She’s got to learn how to mind her own business.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Suzanne, her nervousness turning to anger as the call continued.

  “Because,” said the man, “the next step I take might be an actual, physical threat.”

  “Better be careful,” Suzanne said into the microphone, “because she might just threaten you back!”

  Wiley suddenly broke in. “And that’s our first crank caller of the day!” he enthused. “So tell me, Suzanne, how do you like hosting so far?” ‘

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Grabbing a butcher knife, Suzanne lifted it high above her head, then brought it crashing down with brute force.

  “Whoa there,” Toni cautioned, “ease off. That’s just a poor defenseless carrot!”

  Suzanne continued to whack the heads off the rest of the carrots lined up on the cutting table. “Don’t mind me, I’m just taking my frustration out on a lower form of life.”

  “Go for it,” said Petra, who was waiting to toss the sliced veggies into the soup pot.

  “I guess you’re still whipped up over that crazy caller this morning,” said Toni.

  “You think?” asked Suzanne. She’d tried to get Wiley to trace the call, but no dice.

  “Sure you are,” said Toni.

  “As if encountering a pack of wild beasts wasn’t enough,” Petra said with a sigh, “you had to tiptoe through Chuck Peebler’s house, too. And from the gist of that strange call this morning, somebody saw you going in!” Petra was unnerved by Suzanne’s confession of creepy-crawling Peebler’s house and finding the Post-it note.

  “I thought I was doing Doogie a favor,” said Suzanne.

  “What’s that weird saying?” asked Petra. “No kind act goes unrevenged?”

  “That is convoluted,” said Toni.

  “But maybe a little true,” Suzanne admitted.

  “I have a terrible, gut-wrenching feeling someone knows you’re seriously on the hunt for the killer,” said Petra, looking worried. “Maybe even the killer himself!”

  “It’s possible,” Suzanne admitted, though she didn’t really want to go there. Trying to track down a murderer sounded so much better in the abstract!

  “And it’s all my fault,” said Petra. “I was the one who initially asked you to help clear Jane!” She threw her arms up, looking colossally unhappy. “And now everything’s snowballed!”

  “You didn’t know things would get this crazy,” said Toni. “How could you know?”

  ‘Tell me, Petra,” said Suzanne, “what does Tortuga mean to you?”

  Petra wiped tears from the comers of her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know. Turtles.”

  “That’s what I said “ said Toni.

  “Are you thinking the note is some kind of anagram or riddle?” asked Petra.

  “Yeah,” said Suzanne. “Maybe.”

  “And maybe I should go wait on customers?” said Toni.

  Petra leaned forward and took a quick peek through the pass-through. “Please do get your fanny out there.” She turned back to the stove, flipped over a pair of grilled cheese sandwiches, and said, ‘Tortuga. Maybe it was some kind of cue or prompt.”

  “Excuse me?” said Suzanne.

  “You know, slow as a turtle,” said Petra. “Peebler was running for office against an incumbent, so maybe he was just reminding himself that slow and steady wins the race.”

  “But Peebler was ahead,” said Suzanne. “He was the hare.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t ahead when he wrote it,” said Petra. She slid her spatula under the cheese sandwiches, lifted them off the grill, and expertly set them atop a lovely green sweep of lettuce. Then she added a dill pickle spear and a mound of salty kettle chips.

  “You might be right,” Suzanne said, just as the phone shrilled. She spun about, grabbed the phone from the hook, and said, “Cackleberry Club.”

  “Suzanne.” It was Sam Hazelet.

  “Hello there,” she said, her voice going up an octave, a smile lighting her face. She snicked open the door of the pantry and slid in. Better that way. More privacy.

  “I just had an interesting conversation with Sheriff Doogie,” said Sam.

  Oops. “You did?”

  “Don’t play cute, Suzanne,” said Sam, his voice serious verging on terse, as if he was about to deliver an unwelcome medical diagnosis. “You know exactly what I’m talking about”

  Do I really? Are you talking about ransacking Chuck Peebler’s house, getting cornered by a slavering dog, or being threatened by a crank caller this morning ?

  “Urn,” she said, stalling.

  “The dogs,” said Sam. “Or should I say fighting dogs.”

  “Oh that Those.”

  “According to Sheriff Doogie you stumbled into a nest of pit bulls. Highly dangerous pit bulls.”

  “And here I thought they were teacup Chihuahuas.”

  “Sometimes you scare me to death, Suzanne,” said Sam. “This having been a particularly harrowing week in Kindred, although it probably seemed normal for you.” He sounded upset, just this side of angry.

  Breaking-up angry? She hoped not.

  “Believe me, I don’t run around looking for trouble,” Suzanne told him.

  “Maybe not, but trouble certainly seems to find you in its crosshairs.”

  “Could we please change the subject,” Suzanne asked, “now that I’m thoroughly chagrined?”

  He was silent for a few moments. “I suppose.”

  Suzanne crossed her fingers. “Did you by any chance catch my radio show this morning?”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to catch it. I had to stop by the hospital.”

  ‘Too bad,” Suzanne cooed. Although she was really thinking, Excellent, then you didn’t hear that nasty, threatening phone call I received.

  “Are we still on for our date tonight?” Sam asked. Now there was a questioning tone in his voice, as if he might be worried about coming off too harsh or overbearing.

  “Absolutely, we’re on,” said Suzanne.

  “Just burgers and beer? You won’t be disappointed?”

  She wanted to say, I don’t think you could ever disappoint me. Instead she said, “Sounds delish.”

  “How are we set for tomorrow night?” Suzanne asked Petra.

  Petra had just finished toasting almonds for her Fave dei Morti almond-flavored cookies. Done in the shape of beans, they were traditionally eaten in Italy on Day of the Dead. She was about to toss her almonds into the food processor, whir them to bits, then add them to her sugar cookie dough.

  “You mean with the food, the tent, or the decorations?” asked Petra. “Because there’s a ton of stuff that still needs doing.”

  “You just worry about the food,” said Suzanne. “Let Toni and Junior deal with the tent, fire pits, and decorations.”

  “I know they offered,” said Petra, rolling her eyes, “but Lord help us.”

  “He will,” said Suzanne.

  Petra wiped her hands on the front of her apron. “The food is for sure under control. I’m going to bake up these cookies, then sort of prep, as be
st I can, the rest of the stuff.”

  “That being...?”

  “Hot dogs and boas, baked beans, deviled eggs, apple strudel cider...” She stopped in midsentence. “I’m forgetting something. Oh, the s’mores.”

  “Can’t forget those.”

  Petra’s normally guileless eyes took on a mischievous glint “Except I’m going to do s’mortuaries. They’re like s’mores, only deadlier!”

  “Petra, I never thought I’d say this, but you are off the chain, girl!”

  “She sure is,” said Toni, wandering into the kitchen again. She was futzing with some of the orange rubber bracelets they were going to give to their guests Sunday night, stacking them on her wrist “What’s the cover charge going to be for the Halloween party?” she asked.

  ‘Ten dollars,” said Petra.

  “I thought it was going to be fifteen,” said Toni.

  “That’s what we talked about” said Petra, “but after I figured our food costs, it looks like ten is a more reasonable number.” She glanced at Suzanne. “After all, these are tough times.”

  Toni looked up from her wrist. “What?”

  “Because of the recession,” said Petra. “People don’t have a lot of extra money right now.”

  “Huh,” said Toni, “and all along I thought it was just me”

  “Suzanne, if you don’t start visiting us more often, I’m going to have to change the name of our salon from Root 66 to Root 66,000. Because you’ve put lots of miles on between touch-ups.” Gregg, one of the salon owners, stood behind Suzanne, clucking his tongue and gazing balefully at her in the mirror as he ran his hands through her silky, silvery blond hair.

  “Sorry,” said Suzanne, “I’ve been busy.”

  “What else is new?” snipped Gregg. “You always say that.”

  Tall, blond, and ethereal, Gregg and his partner, Brett, were the most popular hairstylists in town.

  Suzanne smiled back at him in the mirror. “Nice to see you, too, Gregg.” It was three o’clock Saturday afternoon in the salon on Kindred’s main street, and the place was packed. Women in black smocks were being shampooed, trimmed, blown-out, and touched-up, as well as manicured and pedicured.