Egg Drop Dead

by Laura Childs

  “I think you know,” Toni said. She reached up and adjusted her fake puff of hair, as if to underscore her sentence. “When Petra said ‘smarts,’ she meant investigational smarts.”

  “I’m not getting involved,” Suzanne said.

  “You’re already involved,” Petra said. “You found him.”

  Toni nodded. “It’s like kismet or karma or whatever that Eastern philosophy stuff is.”

  “Doogie would kill me if I tried to elbow my way into his investigation,” Suzanne said. And so would Sam.

  Toni lifted a shoulder. “So be subtle. You can do subtle.”

  “Do it for us,” Petra said, a sad expression on her face. “Do it for Claudia.”

  “The grieving widow,” Toni added for emphasis.

  “Don’t you think you guys are laying it on a little thick?” Suzanne asked.

  Petra gave a sober nod. “Maybe we are. But you’re awfully good at ferreting out clues.”

  “And coming up with suspects,” Toni said.

  “Hmm,” Suzanne said. She’d tumbled down the rabbit hole and stumbled upon a horribly violent scene. Now that mental snapshot of poor dead Mike was stuck like a burr in her brain. And it wasn’t just her curiosity that was amped up. Mike’s murder had her feelings of outrage and her sense of justice strumming like crazy, too. So . . . could she? Dare she?

  “Come on,” Toni whispered.

  Suzanne still wasn’t certain about trying to insinuate herself into the investigation. “Maybe if I just . . . tried to keep an eye on things?” she said. “If I asked around?”

  “Good girl,” Petra said, her approval evident.

  Suzanne held up a finger. “But we can’t let this tragedy completely envelop our lives.”

  “Of course not,” Toni said. She suddenly looked relieved.

  “Because we’ve got a busy week ahead of us.”

  “That’s for sure,” Petra said. “With the Yarn Truck rolling in this Thursday we’ll be hosting a Knitter’s Tea. And Friday night is our big pizza party.”

  “And then Monday is Halloween,” Toni said. “We can’t forget that.”

  “Okay then,” Suzanne said. “I’ll poke around, quietly, I assure you, and see if I can get a handle on possible motives or suspects.” She glanced at her watch, a silver Gucci watch that Sam had given her as an engagement present. “But right now we’ve got to get set up for afternoon tea.”

  “We’re on it,” Toni said. “I’ll put out the teacups and things.”

  “And I’ll put on the teakettles,” Petra said. She grabbed a yellow and a red kettle and started filling them with water.

  “Okay,” Suzanne said. For some reason she felt a little better. Maybe it was because she’d decided to poke her nose into the investigation. Or maybe it was because the three of them were in this together.

  * * *

  STEPPING out from the kitchen and into the café, Suzanne felt a renewed sense of energy. This place, the Cackleberry Club, was her lifeline and dream job. The whitewashed walls were decorated with antique plates, grapevine wreaths, old tin signs, and turn-of-the-century photos. Wooden shelves were jammed with clutches of ceramic chickens and ’40s-era salt and pepper shakers. Besides the battered tables, there was a large marble counter and soda fountain backdrop that had been salvaged from an old drugstore in nearby Jessup.

  The rest of the place, the Cackleberry Club in toto, was a homey, crazy quilt warren of rooms that almost defied description. Across the hall from the café was the Book Nook, a small space that carried bestsellers and boasted a fairly decent array of children’s books. Next door was the Knitting Nest, a cozy room packed with overstuffed chairs and stocked with a rainbow of yarns and fibers.

  To Suzanne, the Cackleberry Club was everything a small entrepreneur could ask for. Not so big that she’d be swamped with problems, big enough that there were always exciting challenges.

  * * *

  “HEY,” Toni called out, interrupting Suzanne’s reverie. “How’s this look?”

  Suzanne glanced around. The tables were set with silver spoons and butter knives, floral napkins, and antique sugar bowls piled high with sugar cubes. The air was redolent with the scent of malty Assam tea and fragrant orchid plum tea.

  “Perfection,” Suzanne said. And it was. The word had long since trickled out to the community that the Cackleberry Club was the official go-to spot for high tea. When the café first opened its doors some two years ago, customers had come in wanting afternoon coffee and pie, almost a de rigueur tradition in the Midwest. But slowly, over time, Suzanne and company had changed hearts, minds, and taste buds so that the residents of Kindred actually looked forward to enjoying their tea and scones.

  * * *

  AROUND three o’clock, amidst the genteel stirrings of teacups and clink of bone china, Sheriff Doogie came huffing in. He crossed the café like a man on a mission, rattling some of the dishes on the antique hutch, and plopped his fat butt down on his favorite stool. He slid his hat off his head in one swift motion and placed it on the stool next to him (the better to dissuade nosy neighbors). Then he put his arms on the marble counter and leaned forward.

  Suzanne was front and center to serve him in a heartbeat. “What can I get you?” she asked. “Maybe a nice cup of Assam tea?” She was anxious to ask him about the investigation, but decided she’d better play it cool.

  Doogie shook his head. “Nope. But I will take a cup of coffee. Black and plenty strong.”

  “Coming right up.” Suzanne grabbed a pot of French roast that she’d brewed some ten minutes earlier and filled a white ceramic mug.

  “And . . .” Doogie cleared his throat dramatically as he nodded toward the scones, donuts, and sticky rolls that were displayed in the glass pie saver.

  Suzanne followed his glance. “You want a scone?”

  “With plenty of that poufy stuff.”

  “You mean our Devonshire cream?”

  Doogie nodded. “If that’s what you call it, yeah. But it sounds awfully fancy just to dab on a sweet roll.”

  “You can thank those stuffy Brits for all their pesky traditions,” Suzanne said. She placed Doogie’s scone and a small cup of Devonshire cream on a plate and shoved it across the counter to him. “So how’s it going so far?” she asked. “The investigation, I mean.”

  Doogie took a huge bite of scone and said, “Ungh.”

  “That bad?”

  He chewed quickly, swallowed hard, and said, “No. I’m just getting started. But I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure.”

  He took a smaller bite as his eyes bored into her. “What time did you arrive at Mike Mullen’s farm?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe just a few minutes after noon?”

  “And you were there . . . why?”

  “You know why,” Suzanne said. “I wanted to pick up a couple of wheels of cheese.”

  “And how exactly did you find Mike?”

  “We’ve been through this already.” She glanced across the café, saw that all was running smoothly, and then looked back at him. “You’re making me feel like I’m a suspect.”

  “Are you?” Doogie asked her in a flat tone.

  “You must be short on possibilities if you’re sniffing around me.”

  “I know you didn’t have anything to do with this, Suzanne. I’m just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.”

  “If you’re going to be cranky and evasive, maybe you should dot and cross somewhere else.”

  Doogie lifted his scone in a sort of hopeful gesture. “You know I always need an afternoon pick-me-up. What with my fluctuating blood sugar.”

  Toni breezed by. “That must mean the candy machine at the Law Enforcement Center is broken again.”

  “Nobody asked you, Toni,” Doogie called after her. He focused on Suzanne again. “So
you went out to Mike’s farm to pick up cheese. You stepped into the barn and . . .”

  “The cows were uneasy.”

  “Uneasy?” Doogie’s brows pinched together. “Are you channeling Herefords now or was this just a simple observation?”

  “Observation,” she assured him.

  “Go on.”

  “I started looking around for Mike, calling his name, and then . . .” Suzanne made an unhappy face. “And then I found him. I . . . I kind of slipped in his blood and fell down. It was pretty awful.”

  “Then you ran out to your car and called 911.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see anyone else there?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary?”

  Suzanne hesitated. In all the excitement of police and EMTs arriving, seeing the scarecrow in the woods had kind of slipped her mind. Now she decided she’d better mention it to Doogie.

  “Actually I did see something,” Suzanne said.

  Doogie stopped chewing and stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw something off in the woods. Like a figure of some sort.”

  “A person?”

  “I thought it was a scarecrow.”

  Doogie stared harder at her. “Pardon my French, Suzanne, but no shit?”

  “Well, it looked like a scarecrow anyway. I saw this vague outline of a head and shoulders. But when I glanced back to kind of confirm it, the thing was gone.”

  “Wait a minute . . . So you’re saying a person ran away?” Doogie was sitting up straighter now, looking keenly interested.

  “Maybe. Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me.”

  Doogie lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. “And it disappeared just like that?”

  “Like I said, I could have been mistaken.”

  Doogie was shaking his head. “No, I don’t think you were. I think you might have actually seen someone. Hot damn, Suzanne.”

  “Say there!” Petra yelled through the pass-through. “There’ll be none of that language in this café, Sheriff.”

  “Sorry, Petra,” Doogie called back. He turned his attention back to Suzanne. “Can you give me a description?”

  “Not really. Sorry.”

  “Still,” Doogie said. “Your scarecrow sighting. That’s the kind of information we need.”

  “I suppose it could have been a hunter.”

  “Could have been,” Doogie said. “But that would make it a very odd coincidence.”

  “You think I might have seen a witness?” Suzanne asked. “Or maybe even the killer?” For some reason the scarecrow still felt like an illusion to her. Some kind of sleight-of-hand magic trick.

  “I think you could have,” Doogie allowed.

  Suzanne walked to the end of the counter, grabbed a second scone from the glass pie saver, and plunked it down on Doogie’s plate. “Now it’s my turn to ask a couple of questions. What’s going on with Mike’s wife, Claudia? Do you know where she is?”

  “Claudia’s on her way home,” Doogie said. He picked up his fresh scone and took a bite.

  “On her way home from where?”

  “She’s been up in Minneapolis visiting her sister.”

  “That’s where you reached her?”

  “No, no,” Doogie said. “Claudia happened to call her home phone, trying to reach Mike, and one of my deputies picked up. We were inside, going through the house, doing a sweep to see if anything had been disturbed.”

  “So you guys gave Claudia the bad news over the phone?”

  Doogie shrugged. “What was my deputy supposed to do? Make up some far-fetched story and tell her we were there to rob the house?”

  “I guess not.” Suzanne thought for a few moments. “Was there any sign of a struggle inside the house?”

  Doogie raised a single eyebrow. “You tell me.”

  “I did tell you,” Suzanne said. “I didn’t go inside the house per se, I just peeked into the kitchen.”

  “Stupid.”

  “I suppose.” Suzanne dropped her voice and leaned across the counter. “So. Are there any suspects? Besides my scarecrow, that is?”

  Doogie brushed at a tumble of crumbs that cascaded down the front of his khaki shirt. “Maybe.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Not on your life, Suzanne. This is a closed investigation.”

  “Come on, Doogie. Don’t make me pull it out of you. Because you know I will.”

  “Ho, I’m shaking in my sneakers.”

  “You don’t wear sneakers. You wear big old heavy cop shoes.”

  Doogie took a sip of coffee. “Whatever. Bottom line is I’m not telling you squat.” He dipped his chin and stared at her over his coffee cup. “And making that grumpy face isn’t going to change my mind.”

  “Huh,” Suzanne said. Then, “Who’s gonna take care of the cows?”

  “We got hold of Mike’s brother, Dan. He’s gonna come by. Feed ’em, do the milking.”

  Suzanne thought about going back into that barn again to carry out ordinary chores. For her the place would feel . . . forever tainted. In her mind’s eye she could still see the wet cement floor, the blank, nobody’s-home-anymore expression on Mike’s face, and the fat droplets of blood spattered everywhere. The horror of it all, still fresh in her mind, prompted Suzanne to ask Doogie the lollapalooza of questions.

  “Do you know what kind of weapon was used?”

  Doogie tilted back on his stool. “Oh jeez. You really want to know the gruesome details?” When Suzanne didn’t answer, he said, “Mike was stabbed, just as we initially figured. But seeing as how he was hacked up rather badly, we’re guessing the knife was really large. Oversized even. Like a machete.”

  “A machete?” Suzanne said. “That’s not exactly your ordinary household item.”

  Doogie sighed. “I’ve never seen anybody torn up this badly and I never care to again.”

  Suzanne turned away, poured herself a cup of coffee, and turned back to Doogie. She put the cup to her lips, stopped, and set it down. “I just wish I could give you something more concrete that would help edge your investigation along.”

  Doogie was nodding. “But you did give me something, Suzanne. You saw someone who might have been the killer.”

  Suzanne felt a chill settle around her heart. “That’s not good.”

  Doogie cocked an eye at her. “Why would you say that?”

  Suzanne swallowed hard. “Because if I really did see the killer, then he saw me, too.”

  CHAPTER 4

  SUZANNE had promised Sam a hands-down fantastic meal tonight that he wouldn’t forget. So as soon as she flew through the door and accepted about a million zillion kisses from her dogs, Baxter and Scruff, she washed her hands, put on an apron, and donned her virtual chef’s hat.

  So . . . okay, what about that splendiferous dinner?

  Suzanne opened the refrigerator and scanned the shelves. The rack of lamb she’d pulled from the freezer last night sat front and center. She smiled. Yes, that was going to be perfect. Savory and hearty, delicious with almost any type of red wine that Sam decided to bring along. And he would for sure bring a bottle of wine.

  So how was she on time? A glance at the clock above her Wolf range told her she could manage this dinner with minutes to spare. Grabbing the frenched rack of lamb, Suzanne assembled garlic, flat-leaf parsley, thyme, rosemary, and olive oil on her counter.

  Humming to herself, Suzanne decided her retinue of ingredients made it look as if she were about to go live with a TV cooking show. Huh. Or maybe someday she could have her own Internet channel? Just a simple little show where she would create great farm-to-table dishes? She leaned down and pulled a small roasting pan out of the cupboard.<
br />
  That’s when two pairs of beady eyes stared at her. Or, rather, at the rack of lamb.

  “Let me guess,” Suzanne said to the two dogs. “You’d like dinner, too.”

  “Dinner” was the magic word that set the dogs’ noses twitching and their tails wagging. She dished up two bowls of kibble, and then, as the dogs went facedown into their food, bits of kibble spilling everywhere, she went back to work. She decided she’d kick off dinner with a citrus salad and serve herbed new potatoes as a side dish with the lamb. As she chopped, diced, and sizzled, Suzanne thought about her soon-to-be life with Sam. He’d proposed, she’d accepted. It had been as magical and as simple as that. Now they had a wedding to plan. Which everyone, especially Sam, saw as a major event. Of course, she’d be delirious if the two of them simply dashed off to a small-town justice of the peace and then holed up in a cozy B and B for the weekend. But Sam apparently wanted to get down to some serious planning that included a genuine white dress, buckets of flowers, a walk-down-the-aisle ceremony, and a fairly elaborate reception.

  Suzanne wrinkled her nose as she turned on her oven. So much to do, so much to worry about! Couldn’t she just hand him the latest issue of Brides magazine and let him follow the bridal checklist? There was always a bridal checklist, wasn’t there?

  Still, it was terribly sweet that Sam wanted their wedding to be extra special. So who was she to quibble? After all, women her age and younger still flirted outrageously with the handsome Dr. Sam Hazelet.

  When the phone rang, she picked it up on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “I should be there in two shakes,” Sam said. “Need anything?”

  “Just you,” she said.

  “In that case, I feel the need for speed.”

  “Please don’t. I prefer you in once delicious piece.”

  Suzanne slid the lamb into the oven and then hurried in to set the dining room table. She put out place mats, tall white tapers, the good china, and Riedel crystal wineglasses. Let’s see, what else? How about some music? Or maybe she could find something on the radio. Stepping back into the kitchen, she turned on WLGN, their local station. At this time of night their drive time show featured a nice mix of news, mellow music, and fun gossip.