Egg Drop Dead

by Laura Childs

  “So do you want me to toss out what’s left from yesterday’s muffins and stuff?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Petra said. “I’ll take care of it.” She grabbed a large brown paper bag filled with day-old baked goods and shook it hard. It was her habit to toss the crumbs out back for the birds and squirrels. “I already crunched everything up.”

  Only when Petra opened the back door and leaned out to dispense her crumbs, she let out a surprised yelp. Then she threw up her arms, dropped the bag, and screamed like a wild banshee.

  “What the . . . ?” Suzanne said. What was the problem?

  “Holy Hannah!” Petra shrieked again, her voice rising to an even more ear-piercing octave. “There’s some kind of crazy monster out there.” Petra backed away from the door, fanning herself wildly as if she was in danger of passing out.

  “What?” Toni was instantly alert.

  “A monster?” Suzanne asked. Even though Petra’s face was pinched and white with fear, as if she’d just blundered into a Tyrannosaurus rex, this all sounded rather interesting to her. A genuine monster in their back parking lot? Do tell.

  Petra reached out and put a death grip on Suzanne’s arm. “The thing . . . it reared up on its hind legs and stared at me with bright, beady eyes.” She made a few more frantic fanning gestures and then sat down heavily on a wooden bench. “And then it made a nasty clicking sound!”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t Junior?” Toni asked. She was half serious.

  “Last time I looked, Junior didn’t have a pink snout,” Petra practically shouted.

  “He might after a night of drinking,” Toni cackled. “Especially if he’s been hitting the Wild Turkey.”

  Suzanne pushed her way past Petra, ready to do battle with the monster in the backyard. But when she peered out the back door, a mangy little brown critter stared back at her. It had a humpy, dumpy body, stringy-looking tail, and a weird pink snout.

  “It’s not a monster,” Suzanne said. “It’s an opossum. The little thing is snuffling around in the dirt, obviously looking for an easy handout.” She picked up Petra’s bag, dug out a day-old poppy seed muffin, and tossed it at the creature. Then she ducked back inside.

  “Possum, you say?” Toni said. She pressed her nose against the back window to look out. “I hear those things are good eatin’.”

  Petra sprang up from her bench and poked a finger at the back door. “That critter’s not setting one lousy paw inside my kitchen!”

  “Then I guess we’re going to have to kill it,” Toni said. She glanced speculatively at the knife rack. “Maybe lop off its head with a meat cleaver or something?”

  Petra suddenly frowned. “Wait a minute. You want to . . . kill it?” She pursed her lips together, considering Toni’s words. “Well, I can’t say I approve of that idea. I kind of hate to bring harm down upon one of God’s own creatures.” She was backpedaling like crazy now. “I mean, it is a sentient being, after all.” Her hands twisted nervously in her apron. “Couldn’t we figure out a better option?”

  “Sure,” Suzanne said. “We could get it in the witness protection program.”

  * * *

  TWO minutes later there was a knock at the back door. But it wasn’t the opossum nosing around for more goodies, it was Junior.

  “Junior,” Suzanne said as she opened the door. “What’s up?” He was dressed in saggy blue overalls and had a red trucker cap pulled low on his brow. A pair of pink sunglasses, the kind a teenage girl might wear, was perched on his nose. Suzanne decided he looked like a disreputable mechanic who’d just escaped from a carnival. Or maybe he was just plain disreputable. If he wasn’t Toni’s almost-ex, she never would have let him in.

  Junior flashed a cheesy smile. “I brought you guys another load of pumpkins.”

  “Did we order more pumpkins?” Suzanne asked Petra. Toni had conveniently disappeared into the café.

  Petra shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  Junior hooked a thumb back to where his rattletrap truck was parked on the hardpan outside. “I got ’em for free. I put a new carburetor in Hooch Aitkin’s truck in exchange for a load of pumpkins. I thought you guys might like ’em. You know, to line your driveway for the big Halloween party.”

  “Actually,” Suzanne said, “that sounds like a very creative idea.”

  Junior took a step closer to her. “I gotta ask you something, Suzanne.”

  Uh-oh. “What’s that, Junior?”

  “When I gave Toni a ride over here from the funeral, she was telling me about that guy Julian Elder. And I think he might be your man.”

  Suzanne blinked. “Our man?” Thanks a heap, Toni.

  Junior dropped his voice to an interested, conspiratorial tone. “You know, Elder could be the killer. Mike Mullen’s killer.”

  “We don’t know anything for sure yet.”

  “That’s why you should let me help investigate.”

  “Oh no. No way.”

  “I could just kind of sniff him out a little.”

  “Bad idea,” Suzanne said.

  But Junior was not to be dissuaded. “I could hang out at Schmitt’s Bar. Or over at Shooter’s.” His eyes burned with intensity. “I bet Elder’ll come in there. Every good old boy does sooner or later.”

  “No, Junior,” Suzanne said. “Please just leave him alone. Don’t get involved.”

  * * *

  SUZANNE joined Toni out in the café to pour refills, take orders, and update the chalkboard, since they were now plumb out of chocolate chip muffins.

  “Your almost-ex just showed up,” Suzanne told Toni.

  Toni nodded. “Yeah, I spied his pointy little head out the front window. He’s unloading a bunch more pumpkins for us, I guess.”

  “He says he wants to be a secret agent. Help investigate Mike’s murder.”

  Toni snorted. “Are you kidding? Junior couldn’t find his skinny butt in the hall of mirrors at high noon.”

  “But you told him about Elder.”

  Toni looked uncomfortable. “Well . . . yeah.”

  Suzanne put a finger to her lips. “From now on, mum’s the word.”

  * * *

  EVEN though the Cackleberry Club was serving a simplified brunch menu, they were kept hopping. More customers wandered in to eat, a contingent from the Thursday Night Mystery Readers Book Club stopped by the Book Nook, and Jan Fitzgerald, who’d missed the Yarn Truck yesterday, came in to buy two skeins of pink mohair.

  By one o’clock Suzanne was feeling hungry and slightly ragged. She’d skipped breakfast this morning and was running on only one cup of coffee as well as a few secondary fumes she’d managed to snort when she brewed a pot of Kona coffee.

  “Let me make you something to eat,” Petra offered when Suzanne hauled a second tub of dirty dishes into the kitchen. “How about an egg salad sandwich on whole wheat toast?”

  “I’d love it,” Suzanne said. “Especially if you toss on some alfalfa sprouts.”

  “I think that can be arranged.” Petra hurriedly put together Suzanne’s sandwich, slicing bread and toasting it, mounding on egg salad, sprinkling on the sprouts. As she was cutting the sandwich in half she said, “You’re still looking into Mike’s murder, aren’t you?”

  Suzanne gave her a speculative look. “Don’t you want me to?”

  Petra placed the sandwich on a plate and slid it toward her. “I do and I don’t. I’m half scared that you’re going to find out something bad about Claudia.”

  “I can stop. I can stop right now.”

  Petra placed both hands on the counter and leaned toward her. “No, you can’t. When you get going on something you’re like a dog worrying a bone. You can’t stop. It’s not in your nature.”

  Suzanne took a bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly. “You’re saying I’m tenacious.”

  “Honey,
you’re a pit bull.”

  Suzanne was only halfway through her sandwich when Toni came rushing in.

  “Get out here, girl,” Toni cried. “There’s somebody you have to meet!”

  “Who is it?” Suzanne asked.

  “Never mind that. Just get a move on!”

  Toni grabbed Suzanne’s wrist, pulled her into the café, and then led her over to one of the small tables by the window. It was occupied by a young woman who was just finishing her bowl of soup. Mid-thirties, slim, with reddish blond hair and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, she was dressed casually in blue jeans, boots, and a light-colored suede jacket.

  “This is Cassie Givens,” Toni said. “Cassie, this is Suzanne, the woman I told you about.”

  Suzanne nodded at Cassie. “Nice to meet you.” She tilted her head at Toni. “What’s up?”

  Toni was nearly bubbling over with excitement. “Cassie here is the executive director of Hoof-Beats Horse Rescue.”

  Suzanne practically gasped. “You are? Seriously?”

  “That’s me,” Cassie said.

  “Tell her,” Toni urged.

  “Yes, tell me,” Suzanne said.

  “Well,” Cassie said, “as I was just mentioning to Toni, I’m here to check out some horses.”

  “Julian Elder’s horses,” Toni said. She winked at Suzanne. “I told Cassie we already checked them out last night.”

  “Elder’s been on our radar for some time,” Cassie continued. “And our organization has been raising money to try and buy several of his horses.”

  “You mean buy them so you can save their lives?” Suzanne said.

  “That’s the plan,” Cassie said. “Our group despises the idea of perfectly good horses being taken to Canada for . . . well, you know.”

  “Yes, we do,” Suzanne said. She was a little shocked that Cassie had suddenly shown up here with the intention of buying the exact same horses she’d been so worried about. Yet here she was, like a gift from the gods. “Do you think Elder will sell them to you?”

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it?” Cassie said. “We hope he will, but you never know. These horsemeat guys—and there are more of them around than you think—are pretty weird. You never know how they’ll react. Some will take your money just because it’s easy pickin’s. Others don’t much like groups like ours because we threaten their livelihood. Such as it is.”

  “So you’ve never tried to buy horses from Julian Elder before?” Suzanne asked.

  “Not from him, no,” Cassie said. “But we’ve been aware of his activities. He’s been on our watch list.”

  “He’s kind of on ours, too,” Toni said. She jabbed Suzanne with an elbow. “I told Cassie all about Mike Mullen’s murder.”

  Cassie suddenly looked nervous. “And I’m glad you did. It freaks me out to know that Elder might be a suspect.”

  “‘Suspect’ being the operative word,” Suzanne said. “Because we don’t really know, one way or the other. I mean, it is kind of a stretch.”

  “But you obviously got a bad vibe from him,” Cassie said.

  “The worst,” Toni said.

  “You say that Elder has been on your watch list,” Suzanne said. “So what can you tell us about him?”

  “Not very much,” Cassie said. “We know he’s lived in this area for maybe eight or ten months. He doesn’t own the farm, he leases it, and has only shipped out one group of horses to Canada as far as we know.”

  “Anything else?” Suzanne asked.

  “We found out he used to be some kind of Special Forces guy,” Cassie said. “Which is kind of scary. He’s one of those guys who knows how to kill you with his bare hands and can probably set explosives and such.”

  “So he served in the Middle East?” Suzanne asked.

  “No,” Cassie said. “We heard he did something down in South America. Like maybe in . . . Nicaragua.”

  “Like jungle warfare?” Toni asked.

  Suzanne kept a straight face even while she thought, Uh-oh. Mike was killed with a machete.

  “How many horses are you going to buy?” Toni asked.

  “If Elder cooperates, I’m hoping to get four from him,” Cassie said. “Then I plan to trailer them to a friend’s farm near Red Wing, where our volunteers will work to rehab the horses and eventually get them adopted.”

  “But Elder has eight horses in his pasture,” Suzanne said.

  Cassie looked mournful. “I realize he’s probably got more horses than we can afford. Unfortunately, our group relies mainly on donations from individuals. So we can only afford to buy four horses at this point.”

  “What will happen to the other four?” Suzanne asked. But she was pretty sure she knew the answer. And it wasn’t good.

  CHAPTER 18

  JUST as Suzanne slid a piece of pecan pie in front of Cassie (compliments of the house), Rick Boyle, the rep from Claggett Foods, came stomping in.

  “Suzanne!” Boyle shot an index finger into the air as if he were summoning for the check. But Suzanne knew he was really demanding her attention. Which she didn’t feel like giving him right now.

  Instead, Suzanne headed him off like she was cutting an ornery steer from the herd. “We’ll talk in my office, okay?” She didn’t wait for Boyle’s reply, just spun on her boot heels, headed into the Book Nook, and hooked a right into her office.

  Boyle followed her doggedly, clutching his trusty clipboard, his tongue practically hanging out.

  “Wait up, Suzanne. Gee, I’m glad we’ve got this chance to talk again,” Boyle said as he huffed along.

  Suzanne plopped down behind her desk, grabbed a two-minute egg timer and flipped it over. “You’ve got two minutes.” White sand started pouring from the top of the plastic timer into the bottom of the timer.

  “Whaaa?” Boyle’s face convulsed in disappointment.

  “It’s a busy day,” Suzanne told him. “We’ve got a big event tonight.”

  “What’s going on?” Boyle asked, trying to recover some of his dignity.

  “Pizza party.”

  Boyle nodded. “Then you’ll be needing mozzarella cheese.”

  “Already got a bunch in the cooler.”

  Boyle scrunched his face into a look of frustration. “Have you had a chance to study those product sheets I gave you?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Suzanne’s glance wandered to the sand as it continued to trickle down.

  “That stupid gadget is very distracting,” Boyle said, pointing to the timer.

  “I’m sorry, but this is one of the ways I manage to stay on track. Like I said, it’s a busy day. It’s been a busy week.”

  “You’re sure not making this easy.”

  Suzanne shrugged. “That’s business, Mr. Boyle. Sometimes you land an account, sometimes you don’t. It’s what you’d call a crapshoot.”

  “Meet me halfway,” Boyle urged. He was clearly upset, well on his way to working up a big fat head of steam. “Give me a shot at this.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m pretty well set as far as food vendors go.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” Boyle snarled. And this time his true colors came out. Hidden behind his benign salesman’s mask was an aggressive, belligerent bully. He rose up in his chair. “I know for a fact you haven’t replaced that cheese guy who got killed.”

  Suzanne leaned forward. “What would you know about that?”

  Boyle’s eyes sparkled and he pulled his mouth into a nasty smile. “I hear things. I get around.”

  “I’m sure you do.” It occurred to Suzanne that Rick Boyle probably drove all over six different counties all week long. He talked to people, picked up rumors, probably spread a few nasty rumors himself. He was basically a traveling sales guy who slipped in and out of restaurants and grocery stores at will.

  “You thin
k you’re too good for me?” Boyle asked suddenly. He leered at her, a nasty, knowing look that gave her the creeps. “You think I don’t know you’re a podunk operation that barely ekes out a profit?”

  Suzanne gave him a cool gaze. Show no fear, she told herself. Don’t engage him. Pretend he’s a mangy coyote groveling for a bit of crust.

  “My prices are rock-bottom,” Boyle snapped. “I’m trying to give you a break here.”

  “I think our meeting is finished,” Suzanne said as she stood up abruptly.

  Boyle fumbled open his briefcase and threw an order form down on her desk. “Take a look at this,” he said. “Because I will be back.”

  “I don’t think so,” Suzanne said under her breath as she followed Boyle to the door. Then, once he was outside—after muttering to himself and making a big show of slamming the door behind him—she reached up and turned the latch. There was no way she wanted Boyle to change his mind and come storming back inside. He’d just upset Toni and Petra and make a scene in front of their customers.

  “Suzanne?” Toni was standing just inches from her, a look of concern on her face. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. You look like you just fought off the Prince of Darkness.” Toni glanced out the window. “That food guy was bugging you again, huh?”

  “He wants us to buy his cheese and dairy products,” Suzanne said in a flat tone. “Wants to be our vendor of record.”

  “Really?” Toni said. “Because I saw the look on his face and . . . well, honey, it seemed to me like he wanted to wring your neck.”

  “He’s aggressive, that’s for sure,” Suzanne said. As she said it, she wondered if Boyle really was crazy enough to try and put his competitors out of business. In other words, could he have been the nutcase who murdered Mike Mullen?

  * * *

  FIVE minutes later, Suzanne decided to shake herself out of her Rick Boyle hangover and show Cassie Givens the way to Elder’s farm. She pulled her Taurus around front, waved at Cassie, and then slowly led her out County Road 10. She drove at an even, moderate speed, partly because Cassie was towing a horse trailer and was unfamiliar with the territory and partly because she was mulling over a lot of information.