Egg Drop Dead

by Laura Childs

  From what Doogie had told her, Suzanne figured Faith Anne was the one who was traumatized, not Noah. But she decided not to belabor the point. Instead she said, “I’d really like to meet Noah sometime.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Faith Anne snapped.

  Suzanne decided to take a chance. “Like I told you, I think I saw Noah standing in the woods that Tuesday morning.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m sure you were quite mistaken.”

  Suzanne forged ahead. “It was actually just a few minutes after I discovered Mike Mullen’s body in his barn. I was outside, feeling quite upset, as you might imagine, and happened to glance off toward the woods. And I’m pretty sure I saw someone standing there. At first I thought it was a scarecrow, and then I realized it was probably a person.” Of course, Suzanne thought, it could have been the killer that she’d glimpsed.

  “And you want to ask Noah about that?” Faith Anne screeched. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Faith Anne, your son might have witnessed something very important that day. Something critical to the murder investigation. If you let me talk to him, I promise I’ll be a whole lot more gentle than Sheriff Doogie was.”

  “You’re the one who put the sheriff after us, aren’t you?” Faith Anne sneered. “You tried to turn our lives upside down with all your nasty innuendos and accusations.”

  Suzanne wanted to tell her that Claudia Mullen was probably the one who’d convinced Doogie to take a hard look at Noah, but she didn’t. Instead, she said, “Mike was your next-door neighbor, Mrs. Sorenson. Don’t you want to see his killer apprehended? And if the killer’s still out there—and the sheriff seems to think he is—then aren’t you worried about your own safety? Your son’s safety?”

  “Just . . . just leave us alone,” Faith Anne cried. She clambered into her car and slammed the door. Fumbling to jam her keys into the ignition, she stared straight ahead, refusing to glance Suzanne’s way.

  “Okay then,” Suzanne said, stepping away from the car.

  Moments later, Faith Anne revved her car’s engine, threw it in gear, and fishtailed her way out of the parking lot, almost clipping the fender of a white Jeep.

  “Another satisfied customer?” Toni asked.

  Suzanne turned to find Toni and Petra strolling up behind her. They both carried brown paper bags stuffed with yarn. She gestured toward the puffs of dust that Faith Anne had left in her wake. “That was Faith Anne leaving early. She completely freaked out when I tried to talk to her.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to talk to her,” Petra said.

  “Excuse me, but why were you talking to her?” Suzanne asked. “You know her son is a suspect in Mike’s murder.”

  “Well, I was just being friendly,” Petra said. “But it looks like you scared her half to death.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Suzanne said. “I just wanted to have a . . . a conversation.”

  “I think what we have here,” Toni said, “is a failure to communicate.”

  * * *

  FIVE minutes later, Suzanne, Toni, and Petra made hard work look like an afternoon nap. While Petra scurried into the kitchen to work on her tea sandwiches and scones, Suzanne, Toni, and Kit cleared tables and then pulled out their best tablecloths and dishes for their Knitter’s Tea.

  Suzanne chose cream-colored lace tablecloths and napkins to set the tone and color palette of their tables and then added white milk glass pitchers filled with bright orange marigolds for centerpieces.

  “Which set of dishes do you want to use?” Kit asked. She was gazing into an antique cabinet that held dishes as well as a rather extensive collection of teapots.

  “Let’s put out the Shelley Chintz,” Suzanne said. “And the pewter silverware.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Kit said. “Elegant.”

  “And we need those little glass dishes for the Devonshire cream,” Toni reminded them. “And for candles, let’s use those honey-colored beeswax candles.”

  They all worked for another twenty minutes. Then they paused in a collective break to study their handiwork.

  “Everything’s glowing,” Kit said. She sounded a little bit in awe.

  The café did look magical, Suzanne decided. Crystal glassware sparkled in the candlelight, sunbeams streamed through the windows and danced across the cups and saucers, the flowers seemed to bob their shaggy heads in approval.

  Toni grinned. “We did good. This looks like a picture out of a magazine. The Tea House Times or TeaTime.”

  “Which is exactly what we were aiming for,” Suzanne said, pride evident in her voice.

  Even Petra popped her head out the kitchen door and said, “Holy moley, ladies, it looks like a Stratford-on-Avon tea shop was just plopped down in the middle of Kindred.”

  “Thank you,” Suzanne said.

  Toni held up an index finger. “We can’t forget the place cards. Suzanne? Are they ready to go?”

  Suzanne took the place cards she’d already hand-lettered according to her reservation list and began plopping them down on the tables, making quick, intuitive decisions about where to seat each of their various guests.

  “Uh-oh,” Toni said suddenly, her voice almost catching in her throat.

  Suzanne straightened up. “What?”

  Toni jerked her head toward the front door, where Sheriff Doogie stood outside. He was peering in, his face mashed hard against the window.

  Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Somebody must have spilled the beans about our Knitter’s Tea,” she said under her breath. “He’s probably here to cadge a scone or two.”

  “I guess we have to let him in,” Toni sighed. “And grab some Windex so we can wipe off those smudges.”

  Suzanne hurried to the front door and pulled it open. “What brings you out this afternoon?” she asked with a smile. She wondered if there’d been a break in the case. Hoped there was, anyway.

  Doogie removed his hat and combed his fingers through his barely there hair. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “Now that’s what I like to hear,” Toni called out. “A man with a working brain that can actually formulate an idea.”

  Doogie narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you and your smart mouth have something better to do?”

  Toni shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Sheriff?” Suzanne asked, stepping in to defuse the situation, wondering if her role was always going to be that of peacemaker.

  “No thanks,” Doogie said. “I don’t have time. But I do have a sort of message to deliver.”

  “Yes?”

  “I just got a call from Faith Anne Jorgenson.”

  “She was just here,” Suzanne said. And I’m guessing she wasted no time in calling you and making a big fat stink.

  “So I understand,” Doogie said. “She told me she was at that yarn thing you got going outside.”

  “Is there a problem?” Suzanne asked. Are you suspicious of her? Are you thinking that she might have been the one who killed Mike?

  Doogie frowned. “Faith Anne was real upset. She says you harassed her and spooked her.”

  “She actually said that?” Suzanne said mildly.

  “It’s obvious you must have exchanged a few words with her,” Doogie said. “Asked her about her son, Noah, I guess.”

  “I did indeed.”

  Once the topic of Suzanne’s conversation had been confirmed, Doogie switched over to being more than a little interested. “Well,” he demanded. “What’d you find out?”

  “Not a whole lot. Just as you saw with your interview, Faith Anne is extremely protective of her son.”

  “No kidding. She tells me that Noah has a hard time processing new and unusual happenings in his life. Says he’s got Asperger’s.” Doogie paused. “She even accused me of upsetting him the other day.” Doogie seemed to cons
ider this. “I didn’t mean to interrogate the boy, I just wanted to ask a few questions. But I guess maybe I frightened him.”

  “So she says,” Suzanne said.

  “Yeah,” Doogie said. “Faith Anne acts so strange and skittish, I don’t know what to believe.”

  “But you think something’s going on.”

  Doogie pulled a toothpick from his shirt pocket and stuck it in the side of his mouth. “It sure feels like some sort of undercurrent. That one of them knows something but doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “About the murder,” Suzanne said.

  Doogie’s eyes took on a hard glint. “Accessory to a crime is nothing to fool around with. Warrants can be issued, people can be brought in for questioning.” He adjusted his gun belt. “It’s my right as duly elected sheriff.”

  “I agree completely,” Suzanne said. She glanced across the room where Toni and Kit were starting to make googly eyes at her. It was nearing three o’clock and the café still needed a few finishing touches. Suzanne decided to cut this conversation short. “Doogie, we have a tea party starting in just a few minutes, so why don’t I stop by your office later today. If we put our heads together maybe we can come up with some kind of plan.”

  “No,” Doogie said. “That’s a terrible idea. The whole town already thinks you’re on the payroll.”

  “They do?” Suzanne smiled. “As an unpaid deputy?”

  Doogie looked uncomfortable.

  “A consultant?”

  “Maybe coming here was a bad idea,” Doogie said, edging his way toward the door. “Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you at all.”

  “Too late now,” Suzanne called after him.

  * * *

  THREE o’clock came with a bing bang bong of the old railroad clock that hung on the wall. Then the door flew open and Lolly Herron, one of their regulars, came bounding in, followed by Jenny and Bill Probst, who owned the Kindred Bakery.

  “Look how beautiful this is,” Jenny exclaimed, tugging at Bill’s arm. “I hope you don’t mind, Suzanne, but I brought my hubby along to show him what he’s been missing as far as a genteel tea party goes.”

  “Happy to have him,” Suzanne said. “Delighted to welcome everyone.”

  The Yarn Truck ladies, Lonnie and Linda, followed, as well as another thirty or so guests. Suzanne was frantically busy for the next ten minutes, seating guests, jockeying place settings around to accommodate Bill, exclaiming over old acquaintances. Finally, when everyone was seated and looking about expectantly, she stepped into the center of the room.

  “Welcome, everyone,” Suzanne said. “We’re delighted to have you at our Knitter’s Tea.” She winked at Lonnie and Linda and said, “And thank you all so much for making the Yarn Truck’s first visit to the Cackleberry Club such a rousing success.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Lonnie said with a grin.

  Suzanne continued. “Today we’ll be serving your choice of peach oolong tea or Lapsang souchong, a Chinese black tea with a slightly smoky flavor.”

  That was the cue for Toni and Kit to appear with steaming pots of tea and begin filling their guests’ teacups.

  “So choose your poison,” Suzanne said. “And then get ready for a delicious first course of pumpkin soup served with crostini spread with goat cheese.” She paused. “Your second course will be an apple cinnamon scone served with Devonshire cream, and your final course consists of a three-tiered tea tray laden with three different varieties of tea sandwiches. Chicken salad on cinnamon bread, ham spread on rye, and roast beef with cheddar cheese on hearty potato bread. On the bottom tier of the tray you’ll find honey-custard tartlets for dessert.”

  From there they were off and running. Suzanne, Toni, and Kit made the rounds with fresh pots of tea, then chatted with guests, served the soup, cleared bowls, and then served the fresh-baked scones. Classical music wafted from the sound system and a lovely hum of conversation filled the room. And when the three-tiered tea trays were brought out (looking spectacular and adorned with edible purple flowers!) and presented to each table, there was enthusiastic applause. Even a reluctant Petra was coaxed out from the kitchen to take a bow. For a while, Suzanne could almost forget the hard fact that she’d practically witnessed a murder two days ago.

  * * *

  AS late afternoon approached and the shadows outside began to lengthen, the guests drifted into the Knitting Nest, where Kit was once again holding down the fort. And then, finally, they drifted back out to the Yarn Truck.

  Which gave Suzanne, Toni, and Petra a sort of breather. Dishes still had to be cleared and washed, the kitchen needed to be tidied up.

  “I guess we’re still going to Mike Mullen’s wake tonight, huh?” Toni asked as she popped a leftover tea sandwich into her mouth.

  “We said we’d go,” Suzanne said. “And it’s probably the neighborly thing to do.”

  Toni wrinkled her nose. “Ugh.”

  “Say now,” Petra said. “That better not be commentary on my tea sandwich.”

  “It’s not,” Toni said, still munching. “Like I said before, I just hate anything to do with dead bodies.”

  I’m not particularly fond of dead bodies either, Suzanne thought to herself. But, instead of articulating her feelings on that particular subject, she said instead, “Are we going to be ready for tomorrow night’s pizza party?”

  “Just as soon as we scrape all the crumbs off the floor,” Toni said.

  “It’s that bad?” Petra asked.

  Toni shrugged. “Aw, things are a little cattywampus. But nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  “When will you make the pizza dough?” Suzanne asked Petra.

  “First thing tomorrow,” Petra said. “I’ll mix up a huge batch and let it sit.”

  “Let it toughen up,” Toni said.

  Petra swatted her with a pot holder. “Stop it, you. That dough’s going to be nice and flavorful and mildly chewy. But definitely not tough.”

  “Think we’re going to get a big crowd?” Toni asked.

  “I’d say we’re going to be jammed,” Suzanne said.

  “More than today?” Toni asked.

  “A whole lot more,” Suzanne said. “Friday night pizza is a pretty big deal in these parts. And today’s Bugle gave us a nice write-up in their What’s Happening section. So what do you think’s gonna happen?”

  “I guess we’ll be mobbed,” Toni said. She pulled a scone pan across the counter, stuck two fingers in, and helped herself to leftovers, which were basically nothing more than crumbs.

  “Tell me you’re not eating those,” Suzanne said.

  “Oops,” Toni said. “I guess not.” She dumped the crumbs into a brown paper bag. “For the birds. I know how much Petra loves to feed the birds.”

  “Now I know who to blame for my dirty windshield,” Suzanne said.

  “Blame away,” Petra said as she sank onto a nearby stool. “But hold off until tomorrow. As of right now I’m going to put an Out of Order sticker on my forehead and call it a day.”

  CHAPTER 13

  DRIESDEN and Draper Funeral Home looked imposing any time of year. But four days before Halloween, the place looked like the Addams Family was having an open house. A very spooky open house.

  A misty fog had burbled up and now served as a scrim to dampen the glow from the streetlamps and soften the outline of the funeral home’s peaked roof, riot of finials, balustrades, and corner turret.

  “I don’t like this one bit,” Toni murmured as they approached the large wooden front door with its brass lion’s head door knocker.

  “Neither do I,” Suzanne said. To her, the Gothic-shaped windows, with light faintly shining through, looked like old-fashioned coffins standing on end.

  Inside the funeral home, two ushers were dressed for both the season and the occasion. With their downturned mouths, dull black suits, and sp
it-polished shoes, the men wore their titles of undertaker/usher like badges of honor. Suzanne decided that when things were bad, business was probably good.

  “This place gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Toni said, gripping Suzanne’s arms as if she thought her friend would protect her. “It looks like the movie set in Paranormal Activity 3.”

  “Shhh,” Suzanne whispered as they stepped up to a podium to sign their names in a black leather guest book. The floorboards let out an awful creak (was it just the damp weather?) and they both flinched.

  “That sounded suspiciously like a casket swinging open,” Toni said.

  “Try not to think about it,” Suzanne said.

  They gazed around the Victorian-style lobby with its maroon velvet chairs and settee, faux walnut trim, dark floral wallpaper, spindly tables, and abundance of plastic plants. Funeral music moaned from scattered speakers and Kleenex boxes were perched everywhere. The faint smell of chemicals permeated the air and mingled with the scent of fresh flowers.

  “Cozy, isn’t it?” Suzanne joked.

  “It’s not exactly where I’d want to kick back and enjoy a bottle of chardonnay,” Toni whispered back.

  George Draper, the funeral director and namesake of Driesden and Draper, came to greet them. He was tall and slightly stooped with a sad, hangdog face. Draper reached out and took Suzanne’s hand in his. “Suzanne. Welcome. You’re here for the Mullen visitation?”

  “Yes,” Suzanne said.

  “Toni.” Draper tilted his head in a cool hello.

  “Howdy,” Toni said. She was fidgeting like mad, clearly nervous about the whole situation.

  “Mr. Mullen is resting in Slumber Room A,” Draper intoned in a deep voice. He lifted a hand that looked pale and ethereal in the low light of the entryway and pointed. “Directly to your left.”

  “Thank you,” Suzanne said as Draper faded away to greet another gaggle of mourners.

  Toni’s head practically spun around. “Did you hear what he said? That Mike was resting?”